A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband) (6 page)

“Bah! We’ll buy you all the clothes you want. And if tending a garden strikes your fancy, so be it. You can design your own here.”

Francie shook her head. “It’s not just that. In Amberden, I have freedom. No societal expectations. I can act as I like, dress as I like. Even run barefoot down the street if I please.”

The earl let out a laugh that ended in a coughing fit. He held up his hand when she started to get up. “I’m fine. As for running barefoot, that sounds like a splendid idea. I can just see Alex’s face the first time you present yourself without slippers or stockings.”

“Alex?”

“Yes, Alex. Actually, he prefers Alexander. I’m the only one who can get away with calling him Alex.”

Francie’s heart skipped three beats. “Oh. Are you referring to Mr. Bishop?”

He nodded, a broad grin spreading across his face. “Old stuffed shirt himself.”

“Does he live here?” No.
Please say no
. “Sure does. Alex’s like the son I never had.”

“Well,” Francie said, averting her gaze. “That could be a problem. You see, Mr. Bishop doesn’t like me very well.”
And the feeling is mutual
.

“Why on earth would you say such a thing?”

“It’s a feeling I have. Our initial meeting didn’t go very well.” What a serious understatement. The man had all but thrown her out of this house.

“Once you get underneath that tough hide of his, Alex is nothing but a pussycat.”

Pussycat? Perhaps
roaring lion
would be a more apt term.

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. We seem to rub one another the wrong way.”

The earl wasn’t listening. “How lucky can one man be? A son and a daughter.” His eyes shone as they settled on her. “That means you two are like brother and sister.”

She held her smile until she thought her face might shatter. Brother? Alexander Bishop? Not likely.

“What the hell’s going on, Bernard?” Philip Cardinger demanded, his face red with emotion.

Bernard ignored his friend’s outburst. “Would you like a cup of tea?” He pointed to the silver service in front of them.

“I’d prefer a whiskey.”

“I’ll make two.” Bernard rose and walked to the side table where he poured two glasses.

“Bring the bottle. It’ll save you another trip.”

“You always were the practical one.” Bernard steadied the drinks in one hand and grabbed the crystal decanter in the other. He walked to Philip and handed him his glass, then set the decanter on the table in front of them.

Bernard sank into a camel-colored chair and smiled. “I haven’t been in your library in a good many years,” he said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

Philip nodded. “Not since you were a frustrated tutor in love with one of your pupils. And I...” he paused a moment and when he spoke again his voice clogged with emotion, “I was in love with the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“And she was in love with you.”

“Love didn’t matter to that bastard father of hers. He traded money for Catherine’s happiness. Damn him. It gnaws at me still when I think of it.”

“But now you have Francie.”

Philip’s gaze swung to Bernard, piercing him with keen blue eyes. “She is my child.” It was a statement mingled with a question.

Bernard nodded. “She
is
your child.”

Philip let out a long breath. “Then who in God’s name is the girl living at Glenhaven? She’s not Catherine and Edgar’s daughter?”

“No, she’s not,” Bernard said in a soft voice. Philip took a healthy swallow of whiskey. “She’s your daughter, too.”

And promptly spat half of it out. “What did you say?”

“Catherine gave birth to twins. Girls. She made Eleanor promise if the child looked like you, she was to say it died and take it away. She didn’t trust Belmont. Thought he’d try to harm the child when he figured out it wasn’t his.”

“Where the hell did you go and why didn’t you try to contact me?” Philip asked
, his voice filled with more pain than anger.

“I promised Eleanor,” Bernard said simply. “She was petrified Belmont would find us. When she left Glenhaven, she left everything behind
: her title, her money. We fled to Amberden, a small village two hours south of here. I worked as a tutor for the neighboring estates.”

“Good God, man, had I only known.” Philip ran a large hand over his face. “Here I was, probably tossing more food in the rubbish bin than you had on your table.”

“We made do. We were very happy. I would change nothing.”

“I would change everything,” Philip said. “I would have demanded Catherine leave that bastard.”

“The past is the past,” Bernard said. “It can’t be changed and no amount of regret will bring Catherine back. Now all we can do is see Francie is kept safe.”

“No one will harm her,” Philip vowed. “Not if he values his life.”

The threat hung over the room, wrapping both men in a shroud of dark contemplation.

Philip broke the silence with a loud sigh. “I hear Belmont dotes excessively on the girl. Claire’s her name.” He rubbed his jaw. “I’ve heard she’s beautiful.
And more spoiled than week-old cooked cabbage.”

“Not surprising if Belmont raised her.”

Philip sighed again. “Two daughters. I can’t believe I have two daughters.”

“But you can only claim one, Philip. Belmont must never know the daughter he’s raised since birth is another man’s child.”

Philip’s eyes misted with overwhelming sadness. “I know. Nor can Francie or Claire know. Tragic that blood must ignore blood.”

“It must be that way,” Bernard warned. “It’s a matter of survival.”

***

Francie stirred her tea for the tenth time, listening to the tiny clicking sound her spoon made as it hit the sides of the cup. She looked once more at the large green room around her, decorated in pink and gold florals. Mr. Bishop cleared his throat. Again.

Of course, he was annoyed. He had to entertain her while her uncle and father chatted. Entertain was too loose a word for what that rude excuse for a man was doing. If by
entertain
, her father meant escort her into this room, order tea and scones, and then deposit himself in a chair, and proceed to read his paper, then Mr. Bishop was doing an excellent job. There hadn’t been five seconds of conversation in the last fifteen minutes. Francie slid him a sideways glance. Time to change that. She cleared her throat. “The earl seems like a wonderful man.”

Silence.

“I’m sure you quite enjoy his company.” Nothing.

“Drakemoor is beautiful, though a little overwhelming, I must say.”

More silence.

“Of course, once I’m living here, I’m certain I’ll grow accustomed to it.”

Mr. Bishop crushed his paper beneath his large hands. “What did you say?” His silver eyes narrowed, making the scar on his face stick out in white anger.

He would not intimidate her, even if his horrid scar did. “I said,” she repeated with careful precision, “once I’m living here—”

He slashed his hand in the air and leaned forward, dwarfing his chair. “You, Miss Jordan, will not be staying here.”

“In truth, I would much prefer my small cottage to this
…,” she paused and took in her surroundings, “…overdone grandeur, but the earl insists I stay.”

“Oh?”

She nodded. “He insists.”

“How convenient for you.”

Francie ignored the sarcasm in his voice. If they were going to live under the same roof, it was time to open his eyes about a few things. “I would prefer to stay at Amberden. Everything I’ve heard or read about the upper class reeks of constrictive breeding, loveless marriages, and grudging duty, woven with lies and deceit.”

Mr. Bishop raised a dark brow in her direction. “If you’ve read about the shortcomings of our society, then you’ve also read of the unlimited jewels, fancy gowns, and personal maids?”

Francie nodded. “Of course.”

His gaze swept her old blue gown as though she were a common beggar. “You have no interest in availing yourself of these things?”

“No.”

His lips twitched in what could almost be considered a smile. He thought she was lying. His next words were soft, controlled, and biting. “You have no interest in the earl’s vast wealth? No desire to sink your hands, elbow
-deep into his coffers?” He rested a hand under his chin and waited for her answer.

“Of course not!” This man wasn’t interested in the truth. He’d already drawn his conclusions about her and they were not complimentary. “Regardless of what you may think my motives are, Mr. Bishop, my main desire was to enlist the aid of someone who could help protect our village from being terrorized by a madman.”

“And finding out about your true heritage was secondary?” he inquired. “Or merely inconsequential?”

Her gaze locked with his. “It was not imperative. At first, I was angry my real father did not seek me out, nor try to find out about me.” Her voice softened. “Then I learned he couldn’t because he never knew I existed.”

“I see.”

“You don’t,” Francie said, setting her teacup on the table. “You think I’m after my father’s money.” She stood up and grabbed her cloak. “You think I’m looking to make a good match in your polite society.” She jammed her fingers into her gloves. “Silk and satins.” She flung her bonnet on her head and tied the ribbons with quick, jerky movements. “Diamonds and rubies.”

He stared at her, his expression blank.

Francie took three steps toward him, stopping a foot from his polished shoe. She looked down at him, anger and disgust thrumming in her veins. “People like you are why I want no part of your society. You always think the
worst, never imagining anyone could possibly have a good intention, let alone harbor selfless deeds.”

“It’s been my experience, Miss Jordan, people always have motives, usually very selfish ones, for everything they do,” he drawled. “You, I am certain, are no different.”

What a cruel, miserable beast. “That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Bishop.” She turned and headed toward the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I find myself in sudden need of fresh air,” she replied, clutching the doorknob. She refused to turn and face him, refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing how upset he’d made her.

“It’s raining outside. You’ll catch your death.”

“Then you needn’t worry about me anymore.”

She opened the door and slipped through before he offered any more arguments. Francie hurried across the marble floor, eyeing the great double door leading outside.
To freedom. As she approached, the odd little butler tapped his foot, sniffed, and opened the huge oak door for her.

She ran down the brick steps, past the main drive, onto the well-manicured lawn. Francie ignored the rain pelting her gown and followed the tall privet, losing herself in a tangle of glossy green. Spotting a stone bench several feet away, she headed for it, and sank down onto the hard surface. She had a new father and a new home.
And a new tormenter in her life. If she were to enjoy any measure of happiness with the first two, she’d have to do something about the latter.

***

“He’s not your type,” Jared Crayton whispered, planting a kiss on Claire Ashcroft’s bare shoulder.

She shrugged him off, annoyed with his words. “You have no idea what my type is.”

He nipped her neck, sucking and drawing her sensitive flesh into his mouth. Claire pulled away, wrapping the sheet around her. She still tingled with the aftermath of their lovemaking. Jared Crayton lay before her, naked, bronzed, and beautiful. He was an exhilarating lover, enticing and adventurous.

But he was not Alexander Bishop.

Jared’s fingers worked a slow path down her spine.

“Stop.” She turned to face him, well aware the sheet dipped to reveal a generous expanse of bosom. Soft, creamy breasts...Jared’s favorite.

He chuckled, his green eyes heating at the sight of her. “I doubt you’ve ever told anyone to stop in your life.”

Claire flung her long, black hair behind her and tried to look offended. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He was right
, of course. She’d been hard pressed to say no to anyone since her fifteenth summer of sensual exploration with Oliver Milton, her tutor. What could she say? She enjoyed sexual adventure, enjoyed the forbidden attraction, the complete power she wielded over men. Claire traced tiny circles over Jared’s chest, working her way toward his navel. He groaned and she smiled.

“Bishop isn’t even one of our kind,” Jared said, arching his hips to meet her roaming hand. “Underneath all the starch and manners, he’s still a stable boy.”

“I know,” she said, running her tongue along her lower lip.

“Probably nothing better than an animal.” He grunted as her finger touched the tip of his manhood.

“I hope not,” she whispered in a low, throaty voice. Claire closed her fingers around him and Jared pumped into her hand.