A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband) (2 page)

He toyed with her, most likely hoping for submission. Well, she would never submit. She bit the inside of her cheek harder, not stopping until she tasted blood.

“Francie? Too shy to answer?”

“I am certain many women find your attention most flattering. I, unfortunately, am not interested in an association of any kind with a member of the opposite gender.”

“I see.” He paused, looking at her as if to ascertain whether she told the truth, then continued
. “I am being patient with you, Francie. But there will come a time when my patience will end.” He released her hair and yanked on his calfskin gloves. “You wouldn’t want to displease me.”

He stepped back and brushed off his buff
-colored breeches with slow precision. “The old lady you live with, your aunt, I think,” he said, busying himself with straightening his waistcoat. “Wouldn’t it be a shame if those weeds she grows didn’t make it through the summer?”

“What are you saying?” Aunt Eleanor grew enough flowers and herbs to supply half the village with sachets, wreaths, and medicinal concoctions.

He shrugged and gave her a dazzling, harmless smile. “I’m not saying anything other than accidents happen. Misfortunes occur every day. Disease. Drought.” His green gaze pierced hers. “Fire. Vandals.”

She didn’t even attempt to hide her disgust. “You’d harm an innocent woman, ruin her livelihood, to satisfy your own selfish needs?”

“Did I say such a thing, Francie?” he asked, his tone once again soft and persuasive. “Did I give one small indication I’d be predisposed to commit such a heinous crime? Hmm? Of course not,” he answered when she remained silent. “I merely pointed out what could happen and perhaps given the proper incentives, I might be persuaded to protect your aunt from such a dire situation.”

Anger drowned out the rest of his words. Nobility or no, the man was worse than the slime at the bottom of a rubbish bin. Someone must stop him. Somehow. “You disgust me.”

She stepped away from the tree, hands balled into fists. “You try to prove your manliness by seducing young girls and getting them with child. You’re nothing more than a coward hiding behind your father’s title. Do what you will, I’ll never submit to you.”

Jared Crayton’s eyes turned cold and hard like rough waters in the eye of a storm. He stared at her a long while, his handsome features rigid and assessing. Then, just as calm settles after a torrential rain, his countenance relaxed. And he smiled.
“Never say never, my dear Francie.”

He turned and waved, disappearing into the woods, his words trailing after him. A shiver raced through her as she thought of the man, his words, and the unspoken threat between them.

“Where were you, my dear? What took you so long?” Aunt Eleanor glanced over her wire-rimmed spectacles and smiled.

“Just out checking the roses.” Francie avoided her aunt’s gaze and tried to keep the emotion from her voice. Anger and fear warred with one another, each trying to smother the other like a snuffed flame. Anger told her to fight Jared Crayton, expose him to his father as the lecherous coward he was. But, in truth, she doubted the Earl of Worthington cared. Jared Crayton was after all, only a second son, and she was but a commoner.

And then there was the fear. Fear that the soft-spoken words were indeed a threat, warning of impending destruction to her aunt’s livelihood should Francie continue to resist his advances. Was this how he’d lured the others?

“Francie?”

“Yes, Aunt Eleanor?”

“Is something wrong? You sound odd.”

Francie shook her head. Aunt Eleanor had been the only mother she’d ever known and understood Francie’s moods, even when she herself did not.

“Francie?”

She turned and met her aunt’s clear blue gaze. No use hiding from Eleanor Jordan. She might seem soft and harmless, like a round, gray teddy bear with a little extra stuffing tucked in here and there, but when it came to Francie, she was fiercer than a mother bear guarding her cub.

“It’s him again, isn’t it?” Her lips flattened into a straight line. “It’s that miserable miscreant, tormenting you with his sugared words and evil smile.”

“You know I’m much too clever for the likes of him,” Francie said, forcing a smile. “He’s no better than a pesky bug I intend to swat away at every turn.”

Her aunt cleared her throat and folded her arms over her more-than-ample bosom. “That pesky bug is twice your size with no honor and even less scruples when it comes to a young innocent like yourself. I don’t want you roaming the woods or fields alone.”

“I’m not afraid of him.”
At least not overmuch.

“He’s a rakehell and a scoundrel,” she spat out. “Worse than the lowest scum on the earth.”

The door opened on those last words and Francie’s Uncle Bernard entered. “Who’s worse than the lowest scum on the earth?”

Aunt Eleanor marched over to her husband, thrust her hands on her wide hips, and shook her head. “Something’s got to be done, Bernard.” Her voice broke as she murmured, “Perhaps she shouldn’t stay here any longer.”

“Sending her away possesses dangers of its own.”

What in heaven’s name were they talking about? Where would she go? Amberden was her home, had been the whole of her eighteen years. She loved this cottage with its wide windows that let in the morning light and drenched the rooms in gold. She adored the patchwork comforters and homemade curtains Aunt Eleanor helped her stitch in beautiful pinks, yellows, and greens. No one’s kitchen smelled better than when she and Aunt Eleanor baked bread sprinkled with rosemary or thyme.

And then there were the stacks of books she and Uncle Bernard pored over at night. Books that challenged and entertained, brimmed with tales of explorers from the Far East, sojourning to distant lands where language and lifestyle were as diverse as the people who traveled there. Some volumes expounded on the brilliance of inventors, reconstructing and proving various theories involving everything from ropes and pulleys to stones and crystal.

Leave this slice of heaven? No. She wasn’t going anywhere.

Aunt Eleanor darted a quick glance at her husband, one packed with meaning only the two of them understood. They’d done that more often these last weeks, ever since Francie’s first encounter with Lord Jared Crayton.

She’d been in the far fields that morning, cutting lavender and chamomile for sachets, lost in the sweet heady scents surrounding her. She never heard the horse or its rider until they pulled up less than five feet from her.

Startled, she’d looked up into Lord Jared Crayton’s moss-green eyes, wondering if the whispered tales she’d heard these past months were true. He despoiled young virgins, flashing his white smile and well-bred manners at them, casting them under his spell. For those who resisted, as Francie did that day, he dropped subtle threats with perfect diction and just the right touch of velvet in his voice, making one wonder if his words were laced with menace or mere misinterpretation.

That morning, he’d dismounted and moved toward her. “Beautiful maiden, how is it I have not seen you before today?”

Francie lowered her gaze, uncomfortable with the intimacy in his tone, and went about cutting chamomile. “I have been here.”

“Then it is my great misfortune I have not met you. But...” He took a few steps closer.
“’Tis a misfortune which may be quickly remedied. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord Jared Crayton.”

She’d hazarded him a quick glance. She’d seen him twice before from a discreet distance. The sun glared behind him now, casting
a brightness about his face that made it difficult to discern his features. Francie nodded, clutching the basket between her hands. “I am Francie.”

“Francie,” he breathed, as though it were a caress. “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

Heat seeped into her cheeks as she turned away once again. Tales or not, something in the man’s voice sent a chill through her.

He touched her shoulder and she spun around, quickly distancing herself from him. In the next instant, a huge animal lunged out of the bushes, knocking Jared Crayton to the ground, ripping at his white neckcloth.

“George! George! Off, boy! Off!”

The mastiff’s growl rumbled low in his throat.

“Get the beast off!”

“George! Off!”

The dog relaxed his grip and released the tufts of white from his jaws. Backing up from his prey, he settled on his haunches, his upper lip curling to reveal sharp teeth.

George protected his mistress above everything. Jared Crayton scrambled to his feet, brushing dirt from his breeches. “Damn the beast,” he spat, his eyes burning with rage. “I should shoot him where he stands.”

“No!” Francie rushed toward the animal and threw her arms around his neck. “Don’t touch him.”

The man pulled at his tattered neckcloth with quick, jerky movements. “One bullet through the head,” he hissed, adjusting the white cotton streaked with dirt and saliva.

“Please. Don’t harm him.”

Several seconds passed before Jared Crayton spoke. The trembling rage of moments ago was replaced with smooth even tones. “As you wish, Francie. The beast will live.” He turned and whistled for his horse
, which grazed several feet away.

Francie kept her gaze fixed on him, not trusting his soft
-spoken words. He mounted his horse and flashed her a bright smile. “You should not wander unattended. There are all manner of beasts about, just waiting to send you into peril.” He raised a gloved hand and pointed toward George. “Who knows what misfortune might befall such an animal in these fields with the woods so close by.” His smile deepened. “A wild beast might tear him apart. Good day, Francie. Until the next time.” He nodded his blond head in her direction and spurred his horse into a gallop, heading away from the village, taking with him any doubt all of the horrible tales about him were true.

Three days later, George limped home, his left hindquarter raw and bleeding. Uncle Bernard said he must have tangled with a possum or some such animal
, but Francie knew in her heart the creature that injured him was two-legged and bore a royal crest.

A whimper in the far corner brought her back to the present. Poor George lay on his rug by the hearth, head between his paws, golden eyes alert, his left leg bandaged in white cotton.

“Perhaps we should have told her a long time ago,” Aunt Eleanor said, gnawing on her lower lip.

Uncle Bernard shook his gray head. “She was happy. Living the life of an innocent. How could we thrust such a revelation upon her?”

They were talking about her as though she weren’t in the room.

“But perhaps we’ve done her an injustice.” Tears welled in her aunt’s blue eyes.

“Perhaps,” Bernard said in a quiet voice.

They made no sense. “Would someone please tell me what you are talking about? And why all the ‘perhaps’?” She smiled at Uncle Bernard. “I feel as though we’re hypothesizing on a new method of germination.”

Her uncle moved toward her, his tall figure bent like a sapling swaying in the wind, his bony shoulders stooped. He smelled of tobacco and a hint of peppermint and when he smiled from beneath his thick mustache and beard, his eyes brimmed with affection.

“My Francie,” he said, taking her hands in his. “You always were a smart one.”

“Tell me, Uncle Bernard. Tell me what you and Aunt Eleanor are talking about.” She interlocked her fingers with his and whispered, “Please?”

Her uncle’s gaze drifted past her, no doubt meeting Aunt Eleanor’s for a brief second, before he turned back to Francie. “We fear we can no longer keep you safe here.” His gray eyes misted. “It’s only a matter of time before the scoundrel increases his efforts over you. And, perhaps one day, he’ll tire of the game and pursue you in earnest.” He drew in a deep breath and added, “Whether you’re willing or not.”

“I would never welcome that man’s attentions,” Francie spat out. There it was again. The very word that man warned her about using.
Never
.

“He might feel differently on the subject.” Her uncle shrugged. “We have very little defense against a duke’s son.”

What a strange discussion, peppered with subtle overtones only Uncle Bernard and Aunt Eleanor understood.

“But we know someone who does,” he continued. “Your father.”

Father? She stumbled backwards but caught herself. “My father is dead. Why would you say such a thing?” Her father died in a hunting accident years ago. They’d both told her so.

He cleared his throat. “No, Francie. Your father is not dead.”

His words made no sense. She spun around and looked at her aunt. Tears streamed down the older woman’s pale face, falling from her chin onto her ample bosom. “Aunt Eleanor? He’s dead,” she said with great conviction, and then, “Isn’t he?”

A sob escaped her aunt’s lips. “No, child,” she whispered. “He’s very much alive.”

Francie couldn’t get air to her lungs. It felt like the time George toppled her over in play, all one hundred and ninety pounds of him landing on her belly.

“We’ve wanted to tell you for a long time,” Uncle Bernard said from behind her, placing his long fingers on her shoulders. “We thought we were protecting you, but now there’s a greater harm threatening you and your father might well be the only one who can help.”