A Season of Seduction (16 page)

He was different from Fisk. Damn it. He
was
.

He tightened his hands over his empty coffee cup.

“So…” Stratford studied him. “What are you going to do?”

“Follow her wherever she has gone. Make her love me,” Jack said. “I have a month in which to accomplish the feat. There is no other choice.”

“Certainly there are other choices. The lady has made up her mind. In such a case, it would seem to me that it would be far easier to find a new bride than to try to chase this one across England and win her over.”

Jack narrowed his eyes, then tried to soften the scowl that had formed on his lips. Stratford’s point was sound enough, and he should give it due consideration. Yet when he thought of last night, of Becky’s strength, of her cool determination when she turned her back on his father, he knew.

He wanted
her
. He wouldn’t let her go.

Stratford waved his hand. “No one is in London right now, so you must go to the country in any case. I hear Hampshire is particularly rich with heiresses these days. Attend some of those tedious festive country affairs, and you’ll find a new chit to attach yourself to within a week.” He leaned closer. “Look for an old one. A spinster who believes herself on the shelf. With your looks and bloodline, it will be a simple matter to catch an aging spinster with a nice, fat dowry.”

The thought of chasing another woman—any woman but Rebecca Fisk—made the coffee gurgle in Jack’s stomach. “No.”

Understanding dawned in Stratford’s face. “You don’t wish to make this easy, do you?”

“The level of difficulty has nothing to do with it,” Jack said stiffly.

“I see. It is
her
you want.”

Jack was quiet, then he gritted his teeth. “No one else.”

“Could it be my imagination, Fulton, or am I detecting that you possess some strong feeling for this lady?”

Jack kept his expression flat. “My only strong feeling is for my own life. And Lady Rebecca Fisk will be the one to save it.”

“Mmm…” Steepling his fingers under his chin, Stratford leaned back in his chair. “So how do you intend to woo the chit?”

“Woo?” The word emerged from Jack’s mouth sounding like something foreign and exotic. “What the devil are you talking about?”

Stratford raised a blond brow. “Don’t tell me you’ve never wooed a woman.”

“I’ve bedded women.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

He tried to think back. Long ago, the concept of courting a woman wouldn’t have seemed so utterly alien to him. Yet he and Anne had been friends, then lovers. He’d never
wooed
her. After she’d died, he’d fallen into bed with women, but that had been easy: whispered suggestions, coy acceptances. He’d never put forth with any other woman the effort he’d already put into Lady Rebecca.

He looked up at Stratford. “I suppose I’ve never courted, wooed, or pursued a woman, not for more than one night.”

Shaking his head, Stratford chuckled. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Becky was a far more complicated individual than she appeared at first sight, and therefore it followed that winning her would be more complex, too. Jack’s plan to lure her into marriage hadn’t worked on the first attempt, but neither had he botched it completely. It could have been much worse—if she ever discovered he was the one who’d orchestrated the delivery of that letter to her brother, it would be over for him.

“Well, then. You must tell me what to do.” Jack leaned forward, awaiting his instruction. “But please note, I haven’t the time for a standard courtship. I’ll need to speed things along. Significantly.”

Stratford tapped the tips of his fingers together under his chin. “Then you must bombard her. Accelerated courting, we’ll call it.”

“Tell me how.”

“First, you must pretend to listen to every bit of her prattle.”

“Lady Rebecca doesn’t prattle.”

Giving him a dubious look, Stratford lowered his hands to his coffee cup. “Every lady prattles,” he said patiently. “Unless she is mute, and I know that one is not—I’ve heard her speak.”

“She speaks,” Jack said. “She converses. She does
not
prattle.”

Stratford shrugged. “Very well, if you say so. Whenever she speaks, you must pretend to listen. Wholeheartedly.”

Jack thought back on their conversations, how he’d lapped up her every word like a voracious wolf, and shrugged. “Easily done.”

“You must compliment her. Incessantly. Wax poetic about her flaxen hair, her dewy skin, her exquisite form—”

“Her flaxen hair?”

“Well, make it believable, of course. Silken ebony locks? I don’t know.” The earl waved a dismissive hand. “And you must tell her how utterly valuable she is to you.” He broke off and winked at him. “Well, that’s the truth, eh? Her forty thousand
is
valuable to you.”

Suddenly and vehemently, Jack wished Stratford didn’t know the truth. He stared at his friend without answering.

Stratford chuckled. “I was correct,” he said under his breath.

Jack refused to take the bait.

Sobering quickly, Stratford locked his eyes on Jack’s. “You needn’t worry, Fulton. The truth about you and Lady Rebecca will die with me.”

“I know.” Jack did trust Stratford. As much as the man teased and tested him, Jack knew he understood.

Stratford broke the tension by continuing his instruction. “Ask, ‘What is light, if Lady Rebecca be not seen? What is joy if she be not by?’ And you must compare her to a summer’s day.”

Or a winter’s day, Jack thought. He cast a wry look at his friend. “So I must quote Shakespeare.”

“Oh, yes. Byron, Shakespeare, Milton—all of them. Even better, write poetry of your own. Send her flowers, jewels, expensive gifts.”

Jack sighed. “All this sounds rather dull.” Not to mention that she was a duke’s sister and no doubt accustomed to expensive things. He didn’t have the money to buy anything expensive for her.

“You’re right—it’s utterly tedious.” Stratford grinned. “But I assure you, it is most effective.”

He stared at Stratford in silence, a plan taking shape in his mind. Effective for most women, perhaps. But Becky was not most women.

Chapter Eight

T
he following afternoon, Jack paced the entry hall at Devore House. He snapped a chrysanthemum and daisy bouquet against his thigh with every stride. What the devil was taking so long?

He was nervous, he admitted to himself. What if she didn’t like the flowers? What if she didn’t like the small token he’d agonized over tying to the stems?

He stared at the door leading to the front drawing room and paused for an instant, debating whether to intrude without invitation.

No. He was here to formally ask Becky if he might be allowed to court her, not to act like a savage heathen. He smiled a little, remembering the natives he’d met in the Sandwich Islands. A friendlier, more open sort he’d never encountered. The British, with all their rules and genteel conventions, could learn a lesson or two from the Hawaiians.

Finally, he heard the swish of skirts. He reeled to a halt, clenching the flower stems in his fist, and spun around.

It wasn’t Becky.

Sighing, he pulled off his hat. “Lady Devore.”

She inclined her head, her gaze flicking from the bouquet he gripped tightly in one hand to his face. “Mr. Fulton.”

“I’ve come to see Becky.”

Her thin, dark brows arched, and she gestured at the doorway behind her. “We should talk, Mr. Fulton. Would you care to join me in my drawing room?”

He followed her in and sat in the wicker-backed chair she gestured at. She sat in the settee across from him. A servant brought in tea, and she offered him some. He declined, and she waved the servant away.

When the woman left, she asked, “How did you know she was here?”

Realizing he was apt to break the delicate flower stems, Jack laid the bouquet across his lap and clenched his fist in his lap. “I visited the duke and duchess earlier. They wouldn’t break Lady Rebecca’s confidence, of course, but they provided enough hints to leave me with no doubt she must be here.” He’d been vastly relieved to discover she hadn’t left London after all.

Lady Devore chuckled. “It wasn’t meant to be a state secret, but I don’t think the lady will be ecstatic about you so easily discovering her place of escape.”

Jack didn’t respond. She’d misjudged him if she didn’t think he would find her here.

“I should get to the point,” Lady Devore said. “She doesn’t wish to see you. She is understandably distraught about what happened last night, but she thinks you will want to move forward now after she gave you and your family such a thorough set-down. She believes you are eager to marry and expects you will soon begin the hunt for another bride.”

Jack took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and controlled. “Can she believe I am so fickle?”

Lady Devore sighed. “Truly, I don’t know. She needs time, Mr. Fulton. Apparently more time than you are willing to give.”

He met the woman’s cool, dark eyes. “I’d like to speak to her.”

“I’ll tell her that is your wish.”

“I’ll wait.”

“No. Not today. I shall speak to her about this—perhaps I shall engage in some convincing. You look as if you haven’t slept a wink. Go home, get a good night’s sleep, and return tomorrow.”

“I could walk right past you,” he said in a quiet voice. “I could force my way to her and demand she speak with me now.”

“You could do that,” Lady Devore agreed mildly. “But you’re a gentleman, and you won’t.”

Lady Devore was right—he couldn’t risk pushing Becky farther away. For the moment, he must take small, tentative steps, but he’d see her again. Soon. There was one important thing he’d learned in the past few minutes, and it was somewhat of a surprise: Lady Devore appeared to be firmly on his side.

Rising, Jack held out the bouquet. “Will you give her these?”

Lady Devore inclined her head and took the bouquet from him. “Of course.”

Jack bowed, turned on his heel, and strode out.

• • •

A week later, a footman knocked on Becky’s door bearing a small package that had just been delivered for her. Cecelia, who was sitting in the corner embroidering a gown for one of her young nephews, chuckled when the man left.

“What has Mr. Fulton sent you today?”

Becky sat on the edge of the bed and slid her finger beneath the seal holding the package closed. She opened the paper wrapping. Lying inside was a folded piece of material. Stroking the coarse fabric, Becky sighed with pleasure. “It is a shawl made from tapa, I believe.”

“From what?”

“Tapa.” She ran her fingers over the bold geometric pattern. “It’s a cloth from the bark of breadfruit, made by the natives of the South Pacific islands.”

Cecelia shook her head. “Another oddity to add to your collection.”

“Yes.” Becky smiled at her dressing table, her gaze skimming over the items Jack had sent her in the past few days. There was the bouquet he’d sent the day after the dinner, still fresh in a vase. Tied around the bouquet had been a little carved man with a stocky build and wide, round eyes—the paper tucked into the curve of its arm had said it was a very old carved sperm whale ivory pendant from Fiji. She’d set the man up on her dressing table, thinking he looked rather appalled to be resident with her silver dishes and bottles of cosmetics.

On the opposite side of the dressing table was the bouquet Jack had sent her the following day—a black calabash, a smooth, rounded gourd from the island of Hawaii. Sleek lines and triangles painted in an earthy red dye covered its smooth, black surface. According to Jack’s note, gourds served multiple purposes for the Hawaiians—they used them for everything from water basins to drums for their native dances. He added that he’d found the item useful during his sailing days. But now Jack had used it as a vase. A pair of tall amaryllises sprang up from its spout. Dark pink burst from the flowers’ centers and speckled their smooth white pointed petals.