Triana's Spring Seduction

by Tabetha Waite

She tried to keep her insecurities from overshadowing what had been an otherwise, magical night, and quietly slipped out of bed. She located her nightdress, resisting the urge to hug herself and twirl about the room as she recalled the way he’d removed it from her body just hours ago — and the blatant arousal on his face as he’d done so.

  She opened the connecting door, closing it behind her with a slight click, as she tiptoed to her own chamber, just as she overheard the first of the servants beginning to stir.

  ***

  The man checked his worn pocket watch for the countless time and searched the thickening fog for any sign of his contact. The hasty note he’d tucked into his jacket was sent less than half an hour before with an urgent request to meet at the docks shortly after midnight. In hindsight, he realized how impulsive he’d been in not telling anyone where he was going, but he figured once this meeting was concluded, he would be on his merry way with no one the wiser. Besides, he’d met with this man dozens of times before, so no harm done, even if he had felt more eyes following him as of late.

  But as the minutes ticked by, a prickle of apprehension began to claw at his gut and he wondered if he’d just wandered into a perfectly laid trap. Nervous, he was prepared to turn and scurry back the way he’d come — but froze at the distinct sound of footsteps echoing off the wooden planks. Straining to see through the mist, he barely caught sight of the tall, shadowy figure coming toward him a few feet distant, right before he was bludgeoned over the head from behind, having been totally unaware of another presence until it was too late.

  Darkness descended in painful sparks as he fell forward in a crumpled heap, but just as he was about to lose complete consciousness, he heard a familiar, deep voice impart, “Drag him down to the Swan and see that he stays nice and docile for questioning. After that, throw his body in the Thames.”

  He felt himself being lifted and crudely dumped into a makeshift wagon, where a tarp was quickly thrown over him. As he was carted away, his heart pounding in his ears, he heard that devilish voice give a husky laugh in parting.

  “Compliments of Lady Worthington.”

  ***

  Cordelia was lightly sipping tea in her drawing room when there was a knock at the door. “Yes?” she called out, calmly turning a page in that morning’s gossip column, as her butler stepped over the threshold.

  “This just arrived for you, my lady.”

  She absently waved him away as if he were a pesky insect. But then, all servants were expendable to her. “Leave it on the side table and go,” she ordered. The butler acquiesced to her demand with a bow and quit the room.

  Cordelia didn’t rise immediately, for she knew what the missive would say. Once again her faithful lover had taken care of matters, but then, he really was too easy to manipulate, both with coin — and her body. It was too bad that once she became the Duchess of Chiltern, these affairs would have to cease, at least until she knew if Gabriel could satisfy her ravenous, sexual appetite. Either way, he had to be better than her late husband. What a disappointment that had been.

  It truly was a pity Lord Worthington hadn’t been more accommodating to her needs. If so, he might still be alive today. But to be honest, she couldn’t very well take all the blame for his little spill down the stairs, for he’d always been rather clumsy and particularly foolish. Of course, when it came to a pretty face, she found that most men were.

  Frankly, if it hadn’t been for her late husband’s wealth, marriage wouldn’t have even come into the equation in the first place. She would have been content to be a mistress, for it afforded her the freedom denied her as a wife, but such things had to be sacrificed. For her to succeed in society and gain the power she required, she’d needed to become a lady.

  From the beginning, Cordelia knew she was destined to become someone of import, but being the bastard daughter of an Irish, pig farmer and an English whore, naturally, her parentage was not the opportune choice to marry within the ton. She was raised by her mother in London in a less than reputable part of the city, so she’d learned from an early age how to maneuver people to get her way. Not until she’d gained employment as a scullery maid in a country gentry household did she decide it was time for her to climb to the top.

  She had stolen a few gowns in order to pass herself off as a genteel relation, and after taking several pieces of silver to pay for passage on a mail coach set for Bath, she changed her name and polished her manners to become the epitome of a well-bred lady.

  That was when she’d met George Westchester, the Marquess of Worthington.

  He was in the pump rooms one evening, and after setting her sights on the middle-aged man, an easy conquest to be sure, it wasn’t long before she’d won a proposal. She’d easily convinced him of her passionate love as they drove to Gretna Green and got married before her lies could be found out — that the aunt she’d claimed to be staying with had never existed, and her nights had been spent at the local brothel instead of a respectable hotel.

  She still remembered the look of utter shock and disgust on his face on their wedding night when he’d found out the truth; that she wasn’t the virtuous female he’d thought he’d given his name to. How she had laughed at him, sneering about how easy it had been to bend him to her will. Furious, but trapped in marriage since the damage had already been done, he demanded an heir. But when she dared to bar him from her bedroom upon returning to London, he finally decided to brave the scandal and petition the king for a divorce.

  He never got the chance.

  Looking back, Cordelia couldn’t summon a single bit of remorse, because she knew he could have prevented his own demise, if he’d just played his part as the devoted husband. And now, just when things had been going so smoothly, circumstances threatened her comfortable existence yet again. First with that blasted Bow Street Runner getting captured and blabbering everything he knew, and now this latest little “problem” with Triana Abernathy and Gabriel.

  However, at the end of the day, Cordelia always came out victorious.

  Standing, she took a deep fortifying breath and then crossed the room as regal as any queen in her gilded palace. Upon reaching the table bearing the missive, she picked it up and slid a nail under the wax seal.

  One fly in the ointment has been dealt with. The others will soon follow.

  S

  A smile slowly spread across her face.

  Perfect.

  ***

  “Put tha’ one over there along wit’ the others,” Ridge instructed the crewmen of the Clara Belle, as they unloaded the last of the smuggled crates that had arrived early that morning by wagon, and stored them in the hold. While he had noticed the same two figures always dropped off the goods, the most he could ever discern was that they were of a similar height and build, as they always wore dark, concealing masks and cloaks and arrived in the dead of night at their chosen rendezvous location, which was always a different part of the English coast.

  But at least not all had been lost during his time as the first mate. He finally managed to figure out how the transfer was conducted between the Clara Belle and the Evening Swan. It seemed to be a series of codes between the two captains, but the problem was getting five minutes alone in the captain’s quarters to study the pattern.

  However, the setup appeared to be the same. The Clara Belle would sail into the middle of an abandoned cove, and then wait for an undetermined amount of time. Before long, the wagon would appear, followed by a swinging lantern in the distance. An answering light would shine on the ship in the middle of the quay. Afterward, a few of the crewmen would row a dinghy out to greet the smugglers on shore and the exchange would be underway. Until that point he’d yet to get a chance to join them.

  “One-Eye!”

  Ridge glanced up to see the captain looking down at him.

  “Might I be havin’ a word wit’ ye afore we set sail?” With that, he headed back inside his cabin.

  Ridge wiped his grimy hands on his breeches and strode to th
e upper deck with his usual commanding air. He walked into the captain’s quarters without knocking, Ridge being the only one of the crew allowed such an honor, and asked, “There a problem, Cap’n?”

  Spalling leaned back in his chair. “Just thought ye’d like a drink afore we set out.” He placed two glasses on his desk and poured them both a draught of rum.

  Ridge closely eyed the other man with his solitary gaze, but as he didn’t sense anything amiss, he took a seat. However, when the captain frowned, the action immediately put Ridge on the alert. “Actually, I do have somethin’ on me mind.” He paused before continuing, “Seems some agents from th’ Home Office are sniffin’ ’round our operations.”

  Ridge carefully schooled his features, as he gave a careless shrug. “Don’t see how that’d be a problem for us. We’ve eluded th’ authorities thus far.”

  The captain gave a snort. “Ledy luck doesn’t always hold out.”

  Ridge gave an arrogant lift of his brow. “I thought ye said we made our own luck.”

  “Aye, that we do. But we’ve got t’ cover our necks too.” Spalling’s somber tone caused Ridge to narrow his dark eye. “Got somethin’ I need t’ be showin’ ye in case things get messy. No matter wha’, me ship has t’ stay on th’ water.” He unlocked the middle drawer of his desk, and withdrew a leather bound journal, which he slapped on top of the other mess of papers he’d scattered around haphazardly. “Ever heard o’ the bilateral cipher?”

  “You’re speakin’ o’ Sir Frances Bacon?” Ridge asked, and he quoted the scholar’s most famous saying, “‘Knowledge is power.’”

  A smile spread across the captain’s face. “The very same.” He pushed the journal toward him and said, “I suggest ye start learnin’.”

  The corners of Ridge’s mouth instantly curled upward, although if the captain knew why he was so pleased, he would no doubt shoot him square in the chest with his pistol.

  Knowledge was power, indeed — now that he had full access to the codes.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was no secret that Triana loved to explore. Ever since she was old enough to toddle around after Travell, she had searched for undiscovered treasures.

  So it was no surprise, when Greta brought in her breakfast tray later that morning and told her that the duke had ridden out to take care of a few estate matters but had given her free reign of Chiltern Hall in his absence, Triana found the prospect held great appeal. While she was a bit disappointed to learn that Gabriel had left without a single word to her, at the same time, she was grateful for the reprieve.

  After last night, she wasn’t quite sure how to face him in the bright light of day, especially considering certain areas of her body were still humming with the reminder of all the glorious moments they had shared.

  Her undergarments had been freshly washed and pressed, so Greta helped her into a mint green, muslin day dress that had been procured for her use. While it was a bit loose, it was perfect for a day of adventures.

  She asked the maid where she might begin her discovery of the manor, and Greta suggested that she talk with Hannity as he’d been at Chiltern Hall the longest. She located the butler in the dining room, and he was pleasantly forthcoming. He mentioned that the west wing was an ideal location to start, not only because it housed the conservatory with its grand array of roses, but the music room and great hall were also on that side of the manor, the latter of which boasted generations of Chiltern family members along its walls.

  Triana took his advice and set off in that direction. She walked slowly, taking her time to admire all the aspects of the stately manor, which Hannity had explained, with an obvious touch of pride, had been in the family for nearly three hundred years.

  While everything was impressive at first sight — the centuries old artifacts and priceless, age old furnishings in every room she passed — Triana couldn’t help but feel that something was lacking within these walls, as if they carried a certain sense of… loneliness, yearning to be filled with love and laughter.

  As she continued to make her way through the endless labyrinth of corridors with their tall ceilings and grand architecture, she was surprised that she found the conservatory with relative ease, and that it was just as lovely as Hannity had promised it would be, filled to the brim with roses of every color, shape, and size. She couldn’t help but think of Alyssa, knowing her friend would love it here, as she’d always had a special love of flowers.

  Triana spied a small nook off to one side. It was a quaint area where one might sit and embroider, and she gave a small smile. She could almost picture herself working on her needlepoint while the babe in her belly kicked with delight…

  With a startled gasp, she put a hand to her flat stomach, even though the image dared to linger. To even fantasize about having Gabriel’s child would be pure folly, for such a thing could never be.

  And yet…

  “You are truly mine, and nothing can take you away from me.”

  His words from the night before struck a poignant chord in her heart. How she desperately wished it could be so, but she refused to disillusion herself into hoping for the impossible.

  With a sigh, she lightly stroked the silky soft petal of a lilac rose, before moving on to the music room. It held a variety of instruments — a violin, cello, and even a harp. They were arranged as if they were waiting for the moment when the orchestra would return and they would be played once again.

  However, it wasn’t until Triana’s gaze lit on the pianoforte with its gleaming ivory keys that her interest was truly captured. She’d taken countless lessons as a child, as her mother felt that any lady of quality should play properly, but it was one of the things Triana had truly loved. She trailed her fingers along the smooth surface, wondering who it was that might have coaxed a melody out of such a magnificent piece.

  She glanced about as she sat down on the upholstered bench, as if she might be reprimanded for daring to give in to the urge to do so. While there wasn’t a speck of dust to speak of on the surface, she doubted it had been played in some time, for the black and white keys beckoned in welcome, as if yearning for someone to set their fingers on them. She pressed down on one key, the sound reverberating throughout the room like the beginning of a haunting sonata.

  Strangely moved, but not sure why, Triana stood, deciding that it was time to continue her solitary tour and hopefully, erase this sense of melancholy that had suddenly taken hold.

  As soon as she walked over the threshold to the great hall, Triana froze. Her eyes were immediately drawn to a large portrait hanging above the massive, gray stone mantel. No fire burned in the grate, and as Triana rubbed her arms and stared at the stern image glaring down at her, she knew the sudden chill had nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

  There was a marked hardness to this man’s dark, calculating eyes, a firmness to his mouth that bespoke of a complex character. There was no doubt in her mind that this was Gabriel’s father. The thick, dark hair, the stubborn set of his jaw, and the arrogance in his stance, was enough to proclaim him as the prior Duke of Chiltern. With such a haughty stare, Triana tried to imagine Gabriel as a child, growing up with a father who, even now, seemed to overshadow the room like a fierce presence.

  While Triana’s debutante years had been unhappy due to her father’s abrupt departure and the ensuing scandal that arose from it, Triana had enjoyed her childhood. Her mother had been different then, more carefree, while Travell was simply her annoying, older brother and not a man that felt he had to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. Her father had been the light of her existence with an ever constant smile and a robust laugh.

  The man in this portrait looked as if he’d never smiled a day in his life.

  She turned, allowing her gaze to drift about the room, stopping when she saw a pair of familiar, silver eyes. It was Gabriel’s likeness in a female form, although the Duchess of Chiltern carried a certain sadness to her gaze as she looked out at the world. Young, a
nd fragile, her skin was so pale as to be nearly transparent. She looked weary and drained of all her strength, although a slight smile still touched her delicate mouth.

  “She died two weeks after that painting was completed.”

  Triana quickly wiped at the sudden wetness on her cheeks. She hadn’t even realized, until that point that she’d been crying.

  “My mother.” Gabriel nodded toward the painting as he walked further into the room. Hands shoved in his pockets, he stopped beside Triana, although his gaze remained on the portrait. A distant look reflected in his eyes, as if he were transported to another place and time.

  “Her name was Camilla. She was born a vicar’s daughter and had suffered sickness on and off throughout her brief time on this earth. She was nineteen when she posed for this portrait, and I was told she could barely get out of bed, let alone dress and pose for hours while the artist captured her likeness on canvas. It was only at my father’s insistence that she dedicated herself to the project.” He paused and turned to her, his gaze calm and expressionless. “I was three weeks old when she died.”

  Triana’s heart clenched at the knowledge that he’d never gotten the chance to know his mother. While she admitted Lady Trenton had her faults, she knew she would have mourned the loss of never being around her.

  “My father only spoke of her once; although he claimed to have loved her during the short time they were married,” Gabriel went on to say. “And as cliché as love at first sight may sound, I actually like to believe it was so.” A frown marred his brow before he added more thoughtfully, “And such a theory would prove my father had been in possession of a heart at some point in his existence.”

  Triana had figured out long ago that Gabriel wasn’t one to open up about his past — to anyone. The fact that he was doing so with her now — that he trusted her enough to talk about an obviously painful subject — made her throat close up with emotion. If what he said was true, then perhaps his father had also loved his only son, but as he’d never truly coped with the loss of his beloved wife, he allowed his true emotions to lay dormant under a wealth of heartbreak, unsure how to properly deal with his grief.