A Season of Seduction (5 page)

She cocked her head. “What kind of scandal?”

“It concerned a lady I had known since childhood and her husband, a marquis. Society assumed I was involved only because of my previous connection to the lady…”

“Involved in what?” she asked.

He faced straight ahead, staring at the small but elaborately carved marble fireplace. Someone had built the fire earlier, and it crackled cheerfully behind an Oriental screen. Flexing his fingers, he laid his hands on his knees, giving the appearance of relaxation. He hated talking about this. Hated it. But it had to be done—she would probably hear the story in a way that would transform Anne into a whore and him into a depraved seducer of married women.

Unexpectedly, nerves flickered in his gut. He’d planned this, but he never spoke of his past, of his exile, of Anne and the events surrounding her death. Yet Becky was important. She must know the story—at least the parts of it that would ultimately be revealed to her by parties who would depict his role in a less favorable light. She’d need ammunition with which to respond to the cruelty of the gossipmongers, of those who would try to destroy his association with her just for the sheer joy they would glean from doing so.

“The marriage was tumultuous. It was well known that the marquis had taken a mistress, and his wife—her name was Anne…” There, he’d said it. Her name. He hadn’t spoken her name aloud in years. It emerged more smoothly than he ever would have imagined.

Becky frowned at him. “Yes?”

“She was very unhappy.”

Becky gave a compassionate murmur.

“Late one night, the marquis was murdered between the door of his club and the mews.”

“Just a moment.” Becky raised her hand to prevent him from continuing. “I believe I’ve read about this. The Marquis of Haredowne was murdered in… 1815, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Jack said, his voice as taut as a mooring line under the strain of a gale. One strong gust, and it would break.

Her brow furrowed in thought. “I recall he was shot by footpads intending to rob him, but the sound of the gunshot attracted the attention of passers-by, and they ran away before they could steal anything.”

“That is the general understanding of what happened.”

“His wife died the very same day, didn’t she?”

He nodded, his throat dry.

“But she died of natural causes while he was murdered. It was a terrible tragedy.”

“Yes. It was. A tragedy of the very worst kind.”

“Oh, God.” Straightening, she stared at him with widened eyes. “Before the authorities could make sense of what had occurred, a young gentleman was implicated in the crime.”

“Yes.”

“That was you,” she whispered.

He nodded.

“You were accused of murdering the Marquis of Haredowne.” She blinked at him owlishly, as if the truth of it did not register. No doubt it did not. No doubt she was as innocent as a young widow could be.

How she took this would determine their fate. Jack was not oblivious to the fact that such information would frighten the wits out of most London society misses. This news might very well send her bolting out of his life forever. He could only pray that she was as unique as her actions had hinted.

“I was cleared of all suspicion,” he said.

“I remember that, too. A witness came forward with an alibi, and a judge decided it was impossible for the young gentleman—you—to have committed the crime.”

“That’s right.” Jack caught himself fidgeting and forcibly stilled his body and lightened his voice. “How can you know so much of this? You were just a child at the time.”

“Haredowne was a peer, so it was a well-publicized case. I read about it years later.”

And it seemed she had remembered every detail. Jack gazed at her with newfound respect.

“But you—” She broke off, still staring at him in shock. “That was you.” Taking a great, gulping breath, she shook her shoulders as if flinging away some burden. “What happened?”

“Afterward, you mean?”

“No—I mean, were you there when he was killed? Why is it that you were accused?”

He noted that she had put as much distance between them as the sofa would allow. He must tread carefully here.

He remained very still. “I was accused because of my prior relationship with the marquis’s wife. It was rumored that we were lovers.”

Becky was silent. He glanced at her to see her studying him with a frown, and he turned away, closing his eyes so he wouldn’t detect any hint of horror in her eyes.

He and Anne had been lovers when they were younger, but not then. They hadn’t touched each other since the day she had come to him weeping that she was to marry the Marquis of Haredowne.

“Was the rumor true?” Becky asked.

Jack spoke through a tight jaw. “No. It wasn’t.” His voice shook with the power of his conviction. “I have done many unprincipled and dishonorable things in my life, but I draw the line at touching married women. I wouldn’t cuckold any man.” Not even as despicable a man as the Marquis of Haredowne.

Becky’s luxurious, black velvet eyebrows swept downward as she blinked, and then those indigo eyes fixed on him. Her voice was little more than a whisper. “I believe you.”

Jack pushed his hand through his hair. “In any case, because of that rumor, suspicion immediately turned tome.”

She nodded, but she still pressed her body against the arm of the opposite end of the sofa. God, he wanted to snag her waist and haul her back onto his lap. His fingers itched to stroke that porcelain skin again. He couldn’t touch her, though—not until he soothed her fears.

“The witness came forward explaining that I was elsewhere at the time of the murder, and the charge was dismissed two days after the marquis’s death.”

She nodded.

“Nevertheless, there was an enormous scandal. I’m sure you can imagine.”

An expression of complete understanding crossed her face. “Oh, yes. I can imagine.”

Jack had learned some about her family. They were no strangers to scandal. Nor were they as snobbish as Anne’s family had been. While Anne’s father would accept nothing less than a peer for his daughter, Becky’s own brother had married a woman from the lower orders—the current Duchess of Calton had once been a maid.

From the start, everything he’d learned about Lady Rebecca Fisk, her past, and her family had convinced him that this was the right course for him to take. Every moment he spent with her strengthened that conviction. He liked her. He wanted her. More important, he
needed
her.

“My father sent me away,” he continued. “He ordered me to vanish until the gossip abated. I didn’t officially return to England until August of this year. Before then, the last time I’d set foot on English soil was in the spring of 1815.”

A long, painful silence ensued.

Revealing it all had been more difficult than he’d expected. But it was over now. All he could do was wait. And hope.

“You were gone for so long,” she murmured.

“Twelve years.”

“But you explored the whole world in that time.”

“Well, not the
whole
world.”

She sighed. “I have always dreamed of exploring the world. Africa, Asia, Polynesia. I am fascinated by indigenous cultures. But I’d especially love to visit America.”

“America? Why?”

“I imagine the Americans to possess many of the qualities I admire: curiosity, adventurousness, bravery, practicality. I’ve always envisioned them to be enterprising and imaginative.” She gave him a wistful smile. “Though I’m sure my girlish conceptions have little to do with their real character.”

“No, I think there is much truth in them. As with any place, however, America is filled with all kinds of people.”

“I wish I could travel—go wherever I wanted and do whatever I wished to do. I wish I could be a sailor… but alas, I am a woman, and a duke’s sister. It is not meant to be.”

“Yet you have traveled within the United Kingdom?”

She hesitated. “A little. I have been between London and Yorkshire, where Garrett’s seat is, several times.” She stared at the fire. “I have been to southern Scotland for a few days, and I lived for a time with my husband in Warwickshire. But really, I haven’t seen much of the country. I have a house in Cornwall from my mother, but I’ve never been there.”

Cautiously, he took her hand in his own, turning it over in his palm. It was so soft, so fragile. “If you could pursue a profession, what would it be?”

She took a long moment to consider, and finally she smiled. “I’d be a surgeon.”

“Really?” She’d surprised him yet again. He could hardly see this delicate, elegant creature sawing bones, sewing up wounds, and issuing draughts to the dying.

“Yes, I believe I would,” she said, her voice grave. “Ithink it must be a most gratifying profession. A heartbreaking one, but ever so worthy.”

“Very true,” he said, remembering Smith, the surgeon on the
Gloriana
. He’d drowned last autumn in a gale off the coast of Jamaica, along with three other sailors. Smith was his friend, and a good man. It took a special kind of man to be a surgeon.

Becky brought her knees close and wrapped her arms around them, gazing at him. “Why didn’t you return to England sooner?” she asked finally. “Twelve years is such a long time.”

“I wasn’t welcome. My father, as you know, is a member of Parliament, and my brothers have their own ambitions. They didn’t want their scapegrace of a youngest brother ruining their chances for success.”

“That’s so cruel.”

“I understand their hesitation in allowing my return, and I cannot blame them.”

That wasn’t a lie, not really. After twelve years, he was as distant from his closest family members as anyone could be. He’d seen his father and eldest brother once since his return, and the meeting had been stiff and formal, and eminently uncomfortable. He had no wish to repeat the experience. “My father was sworn to the Privy Council last year, so my absence was certainly not detrimental to his career.” He took a breath. “England is my home, though, and I intend to make a life here now that I have returned.”

She nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

He fetched his glass from the side table. Rising, he went to the sidebar to refill it with brandy as she sipped at her sherry.

As the amber liquid streamed into his tumbler, he said, “Tell me about your husband.”

She recoiled, and he instantly regretted the command. He couldn’t fathom why he had brought up her husband—except, he thought ruefully, for the fact that he had revealed a part of himself, and now he wanted her to reveal something about herself in return. It was childish of him, really.

Jack returned to the sofa, set the glass aside, and took her hand again, pressing his palm against its silky warmth. “Forgive me for that. You needn’t answer.”

“My husband.” She swallowed hard and stared at him, as if she were determined to answer no matter the cost. “He… it was an elopement. I hardly knew him. At first, I was madly in love with him.” She took a deep swallow from her glass, finishing the last drops of the sherry, and then she lowered the empty glass to her lap.

He frowned at her. “But not later?”

“No. Not later. William wasn’t…” She looked away, and tendrils of deep pink crawled across her cheeks. “He wasn’t a good man.”

The effect of her words was instant. Red tinged his vision. His skin prickled hot as memories rushed through him like a flash flood, too quick for him to control. His fist clamped over her hand. “Did he hurt you?”

“Yes.” His hand tightened over hers, and her brows drew together in a frown. “What’s wrong, Jack?”

He loosened his fist and brushed the fingertips of his other hand over her twisted elbow. “He wasn’t responsible for this?”