A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband) (3 page)

Father. She couldn’t get past the word. She considered Uncle Bernard her father. He had raised her. And all these years another man held the title, yet he’d never sought out his daughter.

“I fail to see how this man can help us.” Francie swiped at her cheek, surprised to feel wetness. “If he hasn’t contacted me in eighteen years, I doubt he’ll be interested in ‘helping’ me now.”

Aunt Eleanor buried her face in her lace handkerchief.

“He doesn’t know about you.”

“Doesn’t know?”

“He has no idea he has a child.” Uncle Bernard nodded to Aunt Eleanor, who disappeared into the couple’s bedroom, returning moments later with a small object.

“Here, child,” she said, holding the object out to Francie. “This belonged to your mother.”

Francie reached for a tarnished and scratched half
-piece of locket, turned it over in her palm, and brought it nearer. Her gaze narrowed, then widened, as she stared at the tiny picture nestled inside. The man’s laughing blue eyes,
her eyes
, stared back at her, and fiery curls,
her curls
, framed his handsome face. Uncle Bernard drew her into his embrace, speaking in soft, soothing tones. She was colder than a frozen pond in the dead of winter, and not even her uncle’s jacket or the steady beat of his heart pounding in her ear could warm her. His words made no sense, scattering about her like errant raindrops, falling to nothingness as they touched her ears.

She blinked hard but the tears continued to fall
, soft, silent, and unstoppable.

Francie jostled from side to side as the rented carriage rolled down the road. She grabbed the edges of the worn seat to steady herself. Good heavens, what a contraption! It would be amazing if they reached their destination without a broken bone or some other mishap. A red curl escaped from her bonnet, springing halfway down her nose. She swiped at it, tucked it away, and straightened the bonnet for the seventh time since they’d begun their journey.

“We might as well be riding horses bareback,” Francie said to her uncle, planting her feet on the floor of the carriage and leaning forward. Anything to prevent hitting her head again.

“When you’re at Drakemoor, Montrose will see you ride in nothing less than a carriage bearing his crest.” He gave her a gentle smile. “As you deserve.”

“I’m sorry, Uncle Bernard. Please excuse my thoughtlessness.”

“All will be well, child. Soon.”

Francie squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her temples. A blasted headache threatened. The third in as many days. She leaned further away from the lumpy, faded emerald squabs and wished she’d never heard of Lord Montrose or Drakemoor.

The carriage rolled on, closing in on a destiny she could no longer avoid. And she’d tried. For three days, she’d waged a firm, steady battle of wills against her aunt and uncle, posing questions she was certain would make them reconsider their insistence to send her to Drakemoor.

But to no avail. And so, with great misgivings and a multitude of questions swimming in her head, Francie packed a small satchel and readied herself. She wasn’t staying, so there was no need to select more than one other gown. Not that she owned more than a handful that would be presentable in public. Most were either too short, or too tight, or too worn, and Aunt Eleanor hadn’t the time to make the appropriate alterations. Dress and style never concerned Francie. She’d much rather bury her head in a book or wander the fields collecting sweet-smelling herbs and flowers.

“We should be there in just a few minutes.”

Her uncle’s voice brought her out of her musings. She opened her eyes and looked down at her blue muslin gown. A visiting gown, Aunt Eleanor called it. Cerulean, like the sky on a warm summer’s day. It matched her eyes and the wide ribbon that bound the annoying mass of red curls at the nape of her neck.

“You look beautiful,” Uncle Bernard said in a low, soft voice.

Francie smoothed her gown and picked one of George’s hairs from her sleeve. “You know I’ve never cared about such things.”

“Which makes you all the more beautiful. You are a rare find, a diamond among a heap of rocks. Montrose will need to protect you from the vultures of polite society.”

She wanted to tell him Lord Montrose needn’t protect her from anyone because she wasn’t staying. Not for long anyway. Her purpose for meeting Lord Montrose was twofold. First, she wanted to ask him how a man could love a woman to distraction and never know she bore him a child.

Next, she would request his assistance in her village’s battle against Jared Crayton. Perhaps the Montrose wealth and power could stop the duke’s son from ruining the lives of more young women. She’d take his words, and if fortune were with her, his support and promises to protect her village.

And then she would leave.

***

The quiet rap on Alexander Bishop’s door surprised him. No one ever interrupted him in his study. It was his rule. Not unless Philip needed him or there was a dire emergency, like a fire in the kitchen or a band of marauders in the foyer.

“Yes?” He looked toward the oak door, curious as to the nature of the intrusion.

“Excuse me, sir. So sorry to interrupt.” The thin little man entered, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. He scurried across the room, halting a few feet from Alexander’s massive cherry desk.

“What is it, James?”

The butler tapped his foot five times. Very fast. Tap five times. Rest. Tap five times. Rest. After the third set, Alexander drew in a sharp breath and glared at the man’s bony face. James’s foot arrested in mid-air.

“Well? Out with it, man.”

“There’s a young woman, sir,” James began, his small, beak-like nose twitching as he spoke. “It’s quite curious actually. Quite curious indeed,” he said, nodding, his sparse brown hair separating with each movement.

Alexander cleared his throat.

“Yes, well, there’s a young woman in the gold salon who insists on seeing Lord Montrose.”

“And you interrupted me to tell me that?” He turned back to his ledger. “Send her away.”

“But sir, she insists it’s of dire importance and must speak with him at once.”

“Impossible.”

“But, sir—”

“Do I not pay you an adequate wage to perform the task of butler of Drakemoor?”

“Yes, sir. Indeed, sir. But—”

Alexander slashed a hand in the air. “Then earn your keep. Get rid of her.”

James’s foot tapped five times. “She...refuses to leave, sir.”

“Refuses to leave?” The words fell off his tongue in a soft, melodic tone. Only those who knew him well, and they were few, would recognize the controlled anger in his voice.

“Says she won’t leave until she’s spoken to Lord Montrose,” James finished, stammering on his last words.

Who in the devil would be so bold as to present herself uninvited, and demand to see the earl?

“What’s her name?” Alexander asked, torn between annoyance and grudging curiosity.

“Miss Francie Jordan.”

“Never heard of her.”

“No, sir.”

Who in the devil was Francie Jordan?
Moreover, how was it she possessed the temerity to present herself to one of the wealthiest men in the countryside without invitation? Alexander rubbed his jaw. Interesting. He’d handle her himself.

“Show her in, James.”

“Yes, sir,” the butler replied, turning on his heel and scurrying out the door.

***

How much longer was she going to have to wait?

Francie scanned the spacious room for the fifth time, taking in the grandeur surrounding her. So this was how nobility lived, comforted with luxuriant brocades and Aubusson rugs. She pictured George burying his nails in the tan rug. It matched his coat, almost to the exact shade.

Gold and burgundy damask draperies filtered the sun, washing the room in a warm, rose-colored glow. Not anything like the white and yellow curtains in her humble abode that welcomed the first rays of bright light through the last fading fingers of day. And the accessories. Her gaze settled once again on the three oriental vases sitting on the mantel. Brought over from a trip to the Far East, no doubt. Her home also boasted three vases on an old pine mantel, but they were simple pottery with a rose design. One even had a rather large chip in it that Francie turned toward the wall.

How could Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Bernard consider Drakemoor as a home for her? Even if Lord Montrose accepted her, she didn’t belong here. Ladies in this society wore fine silks and diamonds, their delicate skin protected from the sun and wind. Francie doubted they’d ever buried their fingers in the rich soil of the earth. Or walked barefoot in a field of clover. And certainly they’d never rolled on the ground with a one
-hundred-ninety-pound mastiff.

No, she didn’t belong at Drakemoor and the sooner she concluded her business here, the sooner she could return to the rented carriage, rattling back to her simple life.
Hopefully, minus the intrusion of one Lord Jared Crayton.

Then her life would be perfect.

A light rap at the door disturbed her thoughts. The butler, a little man with a twitching nose, entered the room.

“Follow me, Miss Jordan.” He nodded and held the door for her.

Francie grabbed her bonnet and rose from the burgundy sofa. “Thank you,” she murmured, watching the little man twitch his nose and tap his feet. He reminded her of one of the little mice at home who roamed in the lavender fields.

She pretended the opulence surrounding her was something she saw every day as she clicked down the black and marble hallway behind the butler: gilt-encrusted mirrors, more Chinese vases of varying sizes and shapes, a huge gold chandelier of ornate design. But in truth, she’d never seen or even read about a house as elegant as Drakemoor.

They stopped before one of the oak doors and Francie knew a moment of panic. What if Lord Montrose rejected her outright? Refused to listen to her? Refused to help her rid Amberden of Jared Crayton? She drew in a deep breath, pushing her nervousness aside. Aunt Eleanor said he loved her mother very much. Certainly, even after all these years, that should count for something, if only a few minutes of his undivided attention.

The butler opened the door
, ushering her into Lord Montrose’s study.

“Miss Francie Jordan, sir,” he announced.

“Thank you, James,” a deep voice boomed from across the room. “That will be all.”

The door clicked behind her and Francie forced her gaze in the direction of the voice. A man sat behind a large desk, writing. He was somewhere in his thirties, with closely clipped black hair, save an errant cowlick above his left brow. He had rough, hard features: thick, bushy eyebrows, a straight, firm nose with a slight crook to the left, high cheekbones
, and a jaw that was too square. Nothing soft about him, except perhaps his mouth, which boasted a pair of well-formed lips.

But when he looked up, the frown on his face pulled his lips into a thin straight line and Francie changed her initial opinion. There was
nothing
soft about the man. She met his stormy silver gaze, cold as a winter’s chill, and just as biting.

And then there was the scar. It ran down the right side of his face in a jagged path, from the edge of his bushy brow trailing halfway down his cheekbone.

She swallowed. This man was most definitely not Lord Montrose. Besides being much too young, Uncle Bernard told her Lord Montrose loved her mother beyond reason. She doubted this man ever loved anything in his life.

“Sit down, Miss Jordan.”

He spoke with such commanding presence Francie could do little else than slide into one of the deep green chairs angled in front of his desk.

“Thank you...sir,” she managed. Who was this man? Lord Montrose’s son, perhaps? Or nephew?

He gave a slight nod, cocked his head to one side, and stared at her as though she were a curious bug and he was trying to decide how to get rid of her.

“I’ve come to see Lord Montrose,” she said, fingering the small locket in her pocket.

The man sat back, steepling his long fingers under his chin. “That’s not possible.”

“Not possible?” She thought she’d at least get an audience with the earl.

He shook his head. “No. Lord Montrose hasn’t had visitors in over three months.”

“He’s ill?”

There was a slight hesitation before the man gave a quick, almost imperceptible nod.

“Well, I hadn’t quite considered this,” Francie said, as much to herself as the man seated across from her. The sharp edges of the locket bit into the flesh of her palm. “I don’t mean to intrude upon Lord Montrose, but I need his help.” The man raised a black brow but said nothing. “You see,” she rushed on, determined to tell her story, “the village I come from, Amberden, is being assaulted by a nobleman.
A duke’s son. Actually, it’s not the village, but rather, the young women residing in the village who are being,” heat rushed to her cheeks, “taken advantage of.”

“Miss Jordan.” The man held up a tanned hand.

“No. Hear me out.” Her voice rose with passion and desperation. “Please.” When he said nothing, she continued. “This scoundrel seduces the young girls in our village, filling their heads with fairy tales, promising marriage in order to have his way with them.” She leaned forward, eager to share her disgust. “Then when he gets them with child, he casts them aside, leaving them to face disgrace and humiliation on their own.”

Silver eyes burned into her. “And you, Miss Jordan, are you one of those young innocents?”

“No! Absolutely not!”

Silence.

“I’m not.” Heat spread to the rest of her face.

“Then I fail to see why it is your concern,” he said, as though he were discussing a flock of sheep. “And I am most perplexed as to why you seek Lord Montrose’s assistance.”

“Don’t you see?” She rose from her chair to stand before his desk. “These girls are young and innocent. They trust this man. They want to believe his lies. He’s taking advantage of them. Don’t you feel any responsibility, as part of the noble class, to put a stop to his incorrigible behavior?”

“That depends,” he said, his voice cool and void of emotion.

“What could it possibly depend upon?” How could this man be so unfeeling? So disinterested?

“On why you seek out Lord Montrose when there is a veritable list of other earls and the like who might be more willing and able to handle this situation.”

“Because he might be the only one who would help us.”

“Pray tell, Miss Jordan, why should he help you?”