To Be Seduced (22 page)

The noise of merrymaking faded behind him as he stole away from the loggia and crossed the terrace. The sun shone warm on his bare head as he looked about. A lump rose in his throat as he took in the repaired walls and the newly planted gardens.

Even their immense fortune could not disguise all the damage caused by so many years of neglect. Bethany had healed the hurts as best she could, but the house would bear visible scars as long as it stood. A sad smile curved his lips as he considered the new wing. He fancied he could hear his parents commenting on it. His mother would approve the updated style, and she would have brought his father around to her view.

A high wall of Elizabethan brick arose before him as he approached the end of the terrace. It, too, showed traces of repair work on its bare surface. Richard ran his fingers along the rough brick, old and new, remembering the thick ivy covering it had borne in his childhood. A soft laugh escaped him as he looked down. There, at his feet, a line of young ivy plants poked up from the soft dark earth, their tendrils reaching up as if to grab hold of the wall.

He walked around two sides of the squared enclosure until he reached the door. The heavy oak planks grated on their hinges as he pushed it open and stopped dead on the threshold.

“My God.” He could scarcely breathe the words, so great was his amazement.

The last time he had walked in this spot, its neglected state had overwhelmed him so completely he could not bear to stay.

Now the walls surrounded three tidy concentric rectangles, each with a border of flowers behind a vibrant green strip of turf. A narrow walkway led from where he stood, carried down each level by flagstone steps and widening to form a circle around a small pond in the garden’s center. From there, it rose again to a small arbor on the wall opposite the door.

A lump formed in his throat. His parents had whiled away many an afternoon sitting in that exact spot.

Now the heady fragrance of flowers permeated the still air. Banks of them had been planted against the wall. Other scents floated around him, too. Lavender and sweet pea mixed with the pine-like aroma of rosemary and the earthiness of sage.

Bethany sat on a stone bench to one side of the pond, looking at him apprehensively as he walked down toward her. Her dress shimmered in contrast to her glowing redgold hair. She stood as he neared, twining a stem of lavender in her fingers.

He stopped a few feet away from her, barred from coming closer by the memory of their quarrels. He cleared his throat nervously.

“It’s beautiful. All of it.” He struggled to say more, desperate to bridge the gulf between them. “How could you tell what it was supposed to look like?” He listened in amazement as she described her discovery of his mother’s diary and drawings.

“She spent hours here, especially in the summer. Some of my earliest memories are walking on the grass at her side.” He stepped close to her, taking her hands in his and planting a kiss on each palm.

“You have done so much for me, sweet Beth.” She would have pulled away then, but he gently drew her to him until his breath stirred the curls over her ears. “You have repaired my home and saved my life and honor.” She shrugged, doubtless remembering his harsh treatment of her.

“My home, too.” She kept her eyes averted. Unable to bear that she would not look at him, he lifted her chin with his knuckles. He stroked her silky skin, unable to resist its lure.

The small gesture seemed to undo her. A choked sob escaped from her as he enveloped her tenderly in his arms. As she tried unsuccessfully to stop crying, he held her against his shoulder, tears pricking his own eyes.

“Beth. Oh my Beth.” His voice cracked as he broke away to graze her cheeks and eyes with his lips before kissing her full mouth. “I was so caught up in my curst pride, I refused to admit how much you mean to me.” He rumbled the words between kisses.

Lifting his head to look into her tearstained face, he inhaled shakily as she brushed aside his own tears. “My sweet girl, can you ever forgive me?”

“I can’t seem to help myself.” She gave a laugh that turned into a hiccup. “How long shall I have you before you leave again?” He winced inwardly at her assumption that he would only stay by her side temporarily.

“If you still want me, you shall have me forever.”

Bethany could not believe she heard aright. She forced another sob down. “Rickon, you have no obligation to stay by my side. And I would prefer that you not pretend to love me.”

“Look at me.” She forced herself to obey the command, praying her pain did not show. As soon as she turned to him, his manner changed to one of pleading.

“I am not trying to wheedle you or play a jest. Frances only ever wanted to use me for her own advantage.”

“You said the same of me.” She fixed her gaze on his jabot. A small breeze strayed into the garden and played with the lace as she spoke. “Mistress Shadbourne may be out of your favor, but I have no doubt any number of women are vying for her place.”

“I already have a woman there. The one who has healed my home and my heart.” Her gaze flew to his face at those words. She searched his expression intently, her heart pounding in hope.

“I love you, Bethany.” Somehow his hands had found their way around her waist. His brilliant eyes looking down into hers, he said wistfully, “I’d like to believe that you put such care into rebuilding Graymoor because you might love me, too.”

Overwhelmed at hearing the words she had longed for, she buried her face in his satin-covered shoulder. He would not have it, however, and held her at arm’s length. “Tell me. I need to hear it from your own lips.”

The dam holding her emotions back gave way. Tears threatened again as she wound her arms around his neck. “Oh, Rickon, I think I was lost to you by the time we arrived in London.” She laughed bitterly. “I wanted the money so I would never have to depend on a man. Then I discovered that the thing I wanted most from you couldn’t be bought.”

“The words, vixen.” He gave her a slight shake even as he smiled at her.

“I love you, Rickon.” Then she gasped, for he swung her off her feet and around in a circle. Her feet barely landed on the flagstone path before he kissed her fiercely. She opened to him eagerly, tangling her hands in his honeyed locks to hold him to her.

He eventually lifted his mouth from hers, a grin lighting his face. “Only one thing remains to be done before I have truly fulfilled my father’s wishes.”

“Oh?” She mistrusted the mischief in his expression. “I rebuilt your home—”

He corrected her. “Our home. And you brought me love.”

“I’d like to think we brought each other love.” He kissed her again. Resuming the point of their conversation, she looked at him sternly.

“And I helped your sister plan a wedding so elaborate your military campaigns pale in comparison.” She regarded him with mock sternness. “Just what have I missed, my lord?”

He crossed his arms and gave her a teasing glare back. “If I am to reestablish my family, I require an heir.”

She raised her eyebrows. “The blame for that cannot be laid entirely at my door!”

He cocked his head. “Upon careful consideration, I believe you are correct, your ladyship. But I must insist that we remedy the matter at the earliest opportunity.”

Bethany twined her arms around his neck. “Tonight, my love?”

His eyes turned deep green as he toyed with the delicate lace at her neckline. “Sooner, I think.” Shivers ran down her spine at his husky whisper, but she drew back in disapproval.

“Richard Harcourt, you are not dragging me upstairs in front of a houseful of guests for a quick tumble!” Her heart turned over in her breast as his eyelids drooped to half-mast.

“As you wish, sweetheart.” Despite his smoldering look, he tucked her hand into his elbow and they strolled up the steps toward the wall. His steps became more purposeful as he directed them to a secluded corner. She almost failed to notice the slight jerk when he tweaked her cap to the ground.

“Rickon, what are you about?” He confirmed her suspicions as his cravat followed the cap. She stopped dead. “Have you gone mad? Someone will see us!”

Keeping his gaze on her face, he stripped off his coat and let it fall.

“Are you even listening to me, you wretch?”

“No.” The monosyllable was whispered against her neck. He kissed and nibbled until her knees went weak, but she managed to gasp one more protest.

“We shall get grass stains on our clothes.”

“Not if we remove them first.” He stopped her shriek of protest with his mouth.

“My love, we must get back to our guests.” Bethany sighed regretfully from her place atop her husband’s naked body. “Besides, I freckle dreadfully in the sun.”

He chuckled and caressed her bare backside. “Most of them won’t be visible.” He rolled her over onto the fresh-smelling grass. “I hope you enjoy spending time here, for I want to see you again like this.” His eyes glowed with love. “A beautiful wanton of my very own.”

When they returned to the house, most of the merry-makers appeared to have overlooked their absence. Some people raised eyebrows and whispered behind their hands, but others smiled indulgently at them. As she circulated among the crowd on Richard’s arm, she surreptitiously examined their appearances in the great mirrors hanging on the walls.

Assured that neither of them looked as if they had just come from a lewd romp in the gardens, she passed among their guests serenely. She and Richard paused briefly in their duties, just in time to overhear two elderly women conversing. One remarked on the happiness radiating from Lord Harcourt. Her companion dismissed such romantical notions.

“If I’d married twenty thousand in cash, I’d jest like that myself.”

“Judging from the way he looks at her, I hazard he likes her for more than her money.” The first speaker nudged the second. “I heard she’s from a Roundhead family, and if you ask me, ’tis a mighty good thing. A sober modest woman will tame that family’s wild streak.”

Lord Harcourt could not stop laughing, even after his wife elbowed him in the ribs.

Keep reading for an exciting preview of Ann Stephens’s next historical romance, coming soon from Zebra Books!

Tonight called for some act of rebellion, no matter how insignificant, against the role her family would force her into tomorrow. Diantha Quinn crept across the thick Aubusson carpet, her way lit by the lamp she carried.

The soft wool tickled her bare feet as the dancing light illuminated a room she had come to loathe. Swags of burgundy velvet draped the solid mahogany four-poster bed and the ornately carved mirror over the vanity. Combined with the gilding splashed on furniture and knickknacks, they lent the room an air both sumptuous and oppressive.

She picked up her quilted wrapper, uttering a small noise of distaste. Although her mother adored the garment’s vivid apple green color, the shade gave her own skin a sickly cast.

The alternative of stepping out of her bedroom wearing only her nightgown did occur to her. She managed a small smile at the thought of her family’s collective horror should she do so. However, considerations of modesty and good breeding aside, chill drafts filled the halls of her family’s New York City mansion even in May. She sighed and tied the corded sash around her waist. After sliding her feet into an equally garish pair of slippers, she approached her door and turned the handle.

When she cracked it open, the footman drowsing against the corridor wall opposite startled to attention. “Now miss, you know your father’s orders. You’re to stay in your room till it’s time for you to dress tomorrow.” The sympathy in his voice did not stop him from taking a purposeful step toward her.

“Eoghan, I’ve spent the last week imprisoned in here. Please, I just want to go the library and read.” She hoped the use of his real name would soften the young servant’s heart.

Eoghan, who had been rechristened “Edward” because of Mrs. Quinn’s fears of appearing too Irish, crossed his arms. “Like you said you were going to visit Mrs. Schuyler last month and nearly got all the way to the railway station before they caught you?”

Diantha shuddered at the reminder of her abortive escape attempt and its aftermath. The servant’s voice softened.

“Look, miss, I feel bad for you, I truly do. But your father says he’ll send me back to Ireland if I let you get away. You know I can’t chance that.”

“I know.” The twenty-year-old footman, older than she by only a year, had confided that most of his earnings went home to his mother in County Tyrone. Her father ordered his household with the same ruthlessness that characterized his business dealings. It was not an idle threat.

“I promise I’ll come back. You have my word.” A grimace twisted her face. “Besides, as my parents pointed out last month, I have no other choice.”

How odd to see pity in the eyes of a stripling whose yearly wages did not equal the cost of one of her hats. The boy sighed.

“You’d better, or I’ll be hauled aboard the next packet to Belfast.” He cleared his throat. “You know, miss, Lord Rossburn isn’t a bad sort. For a Scot, anyway.”

“The difficulty is that I’m going to be his wife, not his maid.” She muttered the words to herself as she made her way down the hallway. A flash of bitterness coursed through her. “Servants can give notice if they’re unhappy. I’ll be tied to him till I die.”

She stared moodily ahead of her. Lord Rossburn had been a complete stranger six months ago. Tomorrow she would marry him in a ceremony orchestrated to bring her parents into the inner circle of New York society.

The whisper of her nightclothes echoed ahead of her down the hall to the marble stairway. Unseeing faces painted by European masters gazed out of ornate frames as the glow of her lamp passed. The flicker of light on the statues her father collected lent the impression of movement. As a girl, the illusion had terrified her, but tonight she kept her eyes fixed straight ahead.

Even the thirteenth-century French gargoyles guarding the top of the Grand Staircase failed to unnerve her now. Her older brothers had named them Buster and Willie. During her childhood, the boys had prevented her from wandering the halls after bedtime by assuring her that the stone carvings came to life and roamed through the mansion.

Her siblings anticipated the prospect of her marriage to a lord as enthusiastically as her parents did. They took no pains to hide their delight at her engagement, and often spoke of the cachet of claiming a British peer as a brother-in-law.

She had tried, cautiously, to correct them once. She recalled the occasion with painful clarity. The Quinns had dined
en famille
that evening, a rare occurrence.

“I don’t believe he thinks of himself as British.” As she and her fiancé had yet to converse privately during their courtship, she could not be sure of this, but she did notice he bristled slightly when referred to as an Englishman.

They sat in the pool of light shed by a single chandelier over their table. On either side of them, two other tables stretched the length of the immense room, their far ends lost in the shadows. Enormous antique tapestries lined the room, their age-dulled colors enhancing the gloomy atmosphere.

“Of course he does. The British have been united for a hundred years.” James, the elder, helped himself to a generous slice of layer cake.

“Besides, he doesn’t complain about it.” Thomas took a final swallow of vintage Bordeaux and handed his glass to a waiting footman. “Not that he’ll dare gripe if he wants to get his hands on any of our money. Right, Father?”

Harold Quinn tore his attention away from his plate long enough to glare at his younger son. “I’m not dead yet, boy. I earned my own fortune and I’ll damned well decide who gets it when I’m dead and gone.” His jowls quivered. “Not that I can see any business advantage whatever in marrying my daughter off to some overbred dandy.”

In all fairness, Diantha did not think his lordship remotely dandified or effeminate, but chose not to venture her opinion.

“Mr. Quinn, we discussed the matter thoroughly when we agreed to Diantha’s engagement. Kindly stop speaking in such a vulgar manner, all of you!” Still tall and slim after fifty years and three children, with only a few strands of silver in her honey-colored hair, Amalthea Helford Quinn’s fragile beauty belied a will every bit as unyielding as her husband’s. Noticing the piece of cake in front of her daughter, she rang the small silver bell at her right hand.

“Edward, Miss Quinn does not care for dessert. Please take it away.”

“Mama, I should very much like to have some this evening. Could I not eat just a small piece?” She gazed longingly at the chocolate-frosted confection Eoghan whisked out from under her fork.

“Do not contradict me, young lady. If I let you eat everything you wanted, you’d swell up like a hot air balloon.” The words caused a wave of heat to mount slowly into Diantha’s cheeks. No matter how hard she tried, she could never live down her mother’s disappointment in having borne a daughter who did not match her own beauty.

“For heaven’s sake, Mally, there’s nothing wrong with the girl’s figure.” Her grandmother, the one person in the family unafraid of her daughter’s temper, patted her lips with a damask napkin. “I certainly never treated you like that growing up.” The old woman winked across the table at Diantha, signifying the arrival of a slice of cake in her room later that evening.

She dared a small smile of thanks while her parents were distracted.

“I never had the opportunity to marry a Peer of the Realm. Although I have had a very satisfactory life with Mr. Quinn.” Her mother inclined her head toward her spouse.

As the two regularly engaged in sharp disagreements, she and her brothers glanced at each other and sought another subject to discuss.

Diantha pattered down the steps into the darkened entrance hall. The scent of burning oil drifted from the lamp in her hand as she passed the ballroom, already decorated and set up with tables and chairs for three hundred. She did not bother to look inside. Mama had arranged the decorations without consulting her.

Since that conversation with her family, she had suffered through a series of humiliating meetings with her husband-to-be. Forbidden to utter more than the barest commonplaces, she had listened, eyes downcast, while her mother arranged every detail of the wedding and reception. Her parents had even planned their honeymoon trip aboard the flagship of her father’s shipping line.

Worse, Mrs. Quinn, in an attempt to secure attention for the splendid match, had permitted several pieces of the trousseau to be examined by society writers from a popular journal. After exclaiming over the exquisite creations ordered from Worth of Paris, they published descriptions of several items.

Diantha had wanted to sink with shame when she read a detailed account of her embroidered underclothes. The article sparked one of the few times she protested to her parent.

“No one I know has ever had such an intimate intrusion into their wedding!” She had shaken the paper in accusation.

Her mother rebuked her sharply. “Stop crying, you stupid girl! Society has closed its doors to this family for twenty-five years. Well, this will make them sit up and take notice.”

“I hardly think they’re going to be impressed because my corset covers are embroidered with a flower and leaf pattern.” The remark earned her a box on the ear, but in her agitation Diantha had not cared.

She had tried to escape the single time they left her unwatched, but failed. Wedding arrangements continued. To the gratification of her father, Astors, Belmonts, and numerous other names from select clubs accepted their invitations.

Tonight, she engaged in the only act of defiance she could think of. Slipping into her father’s darkened study, she retrieved a small key from its place under his inkstand and opened the inlaid wood liquor cabinet. Her brothers had taken Lord Rossburn out for a last spree this evening, so she would have one of her own.

She supposed they were visiting the establishment of a Madam Sweet. From whispered conversations between James and Thomas, she gathered gentlemen obtained the services of loose women there. She occasionally wondered just what those services entailed, but knew better than to ask.

After examining each bottle, she picked up one and read the label aloud.

“Cognac, XO Imperial.” She poured the dark amber liquid into a cut crystal snifter and sipped cautiously. It burned going down her throat, but not unpleasantly. In fact, the warmth in her stomach felt very nice indeed in the chilly room. Papa and her brothers often drank more than the small amount swirling in the bottom of her glass.

After a moment’s consideration, she filled the bulbous container nearly to the brim. Removing a book on architecture from her father’s bookshelf, she settled into an overstuffed wing chair and opened it to a chapter on the Georgian Era.

Then she started to weep softly.

James Quinn needed to go on a slimming regimen. Kieran Rossburn held the portly young man up while his younger brother fumbled to unlock the door. “Why not ring for a servant?” His irritation roused his burden from his stupor.

“Father considers drinking and debauchery a waste of good money. So every single time we go out for a bit of fun”—his future brother-in-law indicated the front door of the Fifth Avenue mansion with a sweeping gesture that nearly pulled Kieran off his feet—“the old goat locks the door on us at midnight. We have to let ourselves in as if we still lived over the shop.”

“Damned unreasonable, if you ask me.” Beside them, Thomas looked over his shoulder from where he struggled with the key. It fell to the top step with a cold ping. “Missed again. You don’t think he changed the locks, do you?”

“Highly unlikely.” His lordship’s patience evaporated as the young man stooped to pick up the key and failed.

“Stand up and hold this.” He shoved James into his brother’s arms and retrieved the key from its resting place. Seconds later, he opened the door and guided the inebriated pair to a Louis XV settle. Groping his way in the dark to a switch, he turned up the gas-lit chandelier overhead.

“Say, you can’t do that!” Thomas stood up in protest and promptly collapsed back onto the settle. “The gas isn’t supposed to be lit after Father goes to bed.” Ignoring him, Kieran tugged vigorously at a bellpull.

“I do not care in the least what your father does or does not permit. And after tomorrow, I shall be free to tell him so myself.”

“That’s what you think, old boy.” James gave a snort of laughter, or perhaps contempt. “Harold Quinn never gives up a groat without a fight. If you want to live off his money, you dance to his tune.”

Kieran regarded the younger man coldly. “My estate brings in an adequate amount for me to live off of, thank you. I would like to remind you that your sister comes as part of a business arrangement with him.”

A bleary-eyed footman arrived a few minutes later, struggling into his livery jacket. Consigning Thomas to this unfortunate individual, his lordship hoisted James to his feet and ordered the servant to lead the way to their bedrooms.

As he staggered through what appeared to be miles of hallways, he gave thanks that the Quinn brothers slept in neighboring chambers. Bundling the portly young man onto his bed, Kieran gasped for breath and regarded him with a jaundiced eye. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and left the room.

The evening had been one long alcoholic binge for the Quinn brothers, interrupted only by a visit to Madam Sweet’s brothel for what they termed “horizontal refreshments.” Already disgusted with the family he was marrying into, Kieran partook sparingly of the alcoholic refreshment and bypassed the women completely. An habitué of elegant salons in London, Paris, and Rome, the tawdry entertainment provided at the Quinns’ favorite house of ill-repute failed to impress him.

Not that he expected more from his fiancée’s family. The stench of sweat and cheap perfume from the bordello left a sour tang in his mouth. Hopefully a drink of his future father-in-law’s excellent cognac would overcome it. As he made his way toward the study, he fought back the bile that rose in his throat. His engagement had given him plenty of time to assess the family. Only the need to look after his tenants kept him from bolting this neo-Gothic monstrosity they called a house.