A Season of Seduction (19 page)

Four months. How quickly her first husband had proved to be a bastard.

“People have little control over such things. Perhaps a higher power determined it wasn’t your time.”

She grew even more somber. “Perhaps. If I’d had a child by William, he wouldn’t have a father, and I would know his true father was…” Her voice dwindled.

He closed his hand over hers, so that her fingers folded into a small fist encompassed by his own. The fortune-teller had also told him that he would experience great love in his life, and that if he wasn’t careful, he’d lose that love.

He’d known—just known—there was something of truth in what the old crone had told him. She was speaking of Anne. But it was too late for him—he’d already lost her.

Yet maybe she’d been speaking of Becky.

Beautiful Lady Rebecca Fisk, daughter of a duke, wounded soul, and oh so rich. Could he love this woman? He certainly liked her. He’d liked her from the beginning, and that feeling grew each time he saw her, witnessed the quirks of her personality, learned more about her.

“Trust,” he said quietly, “is a leap of faith. One must make a decision to abandon doubt and release all misgivings. One must hold on to the conviction that the soul upon whom you’ve bestowed the gift will hold it close and never destroy it.”

“I gave William my trust so easily.” Her expression darkened. “Far too easily.”

“Yes, you gave it generously, and in all innocence. But no longer.”

“No.” She squeezed her eyes shut.

“I understand.”

“Then you should understand why I cannot trust anyone ever again.”

“I understand it, Becky. But there is no way for me to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I will not hurt you. I can tell you I won’t, over and over again, but that isn’t proof.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Words are meaningless; only actions will provide you with the proof you need.”

“Yes.”

He shrugged, then brought her fist to his lips, opening her fingers and brushing small kisses over each of her knuckles. “Then all I can do is attempt to show you how I feel for you. How much I wish to see you content and happy. What a life with me would be like.”

“You could do that.” She opened her eyes and looked at him with something akin to desperation. “But what would it prove? William—” Her voice cracked and she tried again. “William was so kind, so loving—passionate, even—before we ran away together. And then, as soon aswe were married—” Her eyes turned glassy and she looked away.

“That is where the leap of faith comes in.”

“But,” she whispered, “what if I cannot make that leap?”

“You will,” he promised. He wanted her lips. Badly. He tightened his grip on her, effectively trapping her against him.

Her gaze shot to his, pupils flaring a bit, whether with excitement or alarm, he couldn’t quite tell.

“Your bonnet is in the way,” he said in a low voice. He moved his hand to the ribbon tied around her chin and with a flick of his fingers, loosened the bow. He removed the bonnet carefully, making sure none of the straw strands caught on her hair. He set it on the window ledge and turned back to her.

The traffic had increased on Piccadilly below. If anyone chanced to gaze up at the Egyptian Hall’s window, he would see Jack gripping Becky’s upper arms. Jack didn’t care.

Pressing a finger to her chin, he tipped her face up. She didn’t resist. Ever so softly, he pressed his lips to hers.

His eyelids sank shut as every nerve in his body flared into high alert. But he schooled himself to gentleness, gliding his lips over hers in a delicate caress. She tasted so sweet.

She didn’t fight him. She didn’t draw away. Her lips moved tentatively over his, her hands slid hesitantly up his arms. Slipping his arm around her waist, he drew her tightly against him, showing her just how much he wanted her.

Her arms tightened over his shoulders and closed around his neck. Her mouth opened and her lips moved more boldly over his. He cradled her face in his palm. There was nothing softer, warmer, sweeter than the curve of her cheek.

And her taste, God… He touched his tongue to hers, certain he could never get enough of her taste. She whimpered softly into his mouth, her fingertips playing in the strands of hair at the base of his skull, tickling and teasing him in a place he’d never known could affect him.

Gently, he pulled away, staying close enough to feel her warm, ragged breaths dance over his cheek.

He ran his hands up her face and down her arms, feeling the crookedly set bones in her right arm before pulling her hands down between them, entwining his fingers with hers.

He gave her a questioning smile. “I’ve never courted a woman.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Never wished to.”

“Until now?”

“Until now.”

“Why me, Jack?”

“I like you,” he said.

After he’d spoken, he remembered the true reason he was courting her, and his gut clenched tight.

But he hadn’t lied. He did like her. He wasn’t going to spout Shakespeare or write a sonnet about it, because itwas a simple fact. Furthermore, Shakespeare didn’t appear to be necessary—from her expression it was clear that she understood the significance of his simple words.

“I… like you, too.” She didn’t appear at all happy about that revelation. “I am trying very hard not to, but I can’t seem to help it.”

She was teetering on the edge of a chasm of self-doubt. He had to divert her. Squeezing her hands, he said, “Let’s explore the rest of the rooms.”

She sighed in relief and nodded. “Yes.”

He returned her glove and bonnet to her, and she pulled on the glove, then retied the bonnet’s ribbons under her chin as they left the landing. In the Roman Gallery, they gazed at the painting taking up the greater portion of the wall at the far end of the room. The work was labeled
The Death of Virginia.

“I vaguely remember this story,” he murmured. “Virginia… she was about to be carted off by the tyrant—” He pointed at the man who stood at the tribunal in the midst of the Roman Forum.

“Appius Claudius.”

“Yes. That’s his name.”

“There’s her father—” Becky gestured at the man raising a bloodied knife toward the figure who stood at the tribunal. At the man’s feet lay the fallen girl crumpled in a heap. “Virginius. He slew his own daughter to save her from a life of misery with Appius Claudius.”

Becky continued to talk of the painting, naming the landmarks of Rome depicted in the painting: the Forum, the Tarpeian Rock, the Temple of Jupiter, the Temple of Venus Cloacina. Catching him staring at her, she stopped speaking abruptly and flushed pink all the way to the tips of her ears. “I’m sorry.”

He grinned. “I’ve never known a bluestocking. It’s fascinating.”

“Perhaps that is why you are so tenacious,” she said stiffly, turning away from the painting. “All that most of my suitors require is the statement that I am a bluestocking, and they run without a backward glance.”

“Have you had many suitors?” He fell into step beside her as she headed toward the door of the Roman Room.

“No. Not many.”

“Why would they run upon learning that you are a bluestocking?” Jack pressed.

“Because we are, ‘without being positively criminal, the most odious characters in society.’ ”

“Who said that?”

“It’s from an article in
The British Critic
I read a few years ago.”

“I think he who finds bluestockings ‘odious,’ as you say, is merely jealous that a woman can be more intelligent and more literate than himself.”

The edges of her lips twitched upward.

“I have always held the impression, however,” he continued, “that bluestockings are pompous, affected braggarts brimming with conceit.” He smiled as they began to descend the stairs. “Hence my surprise when you labeled yourself as one.”

“So you concur with the assessment that we are ‘odious.’ ”

“If I did once, I don’t anymore.”

She sniffed. “You’ve latched on to the preconceived and oversimplified notion of what being a bluestocking entails.”

“Perhaps you are right. I insist you define the term properly to set me straight.”

“I imagine it means different things to different people, but to me, it is a woman who is interested in the acquisition and applications of knowledge.”

“I see.”

“While some ladies might take an interest in drawing or singing or the pianoforte, I prefer books and the knowledge contained in them.” She shrugged. “It is a matter of preference, nothing more.”

They’d arrived at the bottom of the stairs. From the corner of his eye, Jack saw a door opening and the dark figure of the curator approaching them. “You play the pianoforte.”

“I am, and will always be, a novice at the pianoforte.”

The curator thanked them for coming and gave them their coats. Jack held Becky’s coat as she slipped her arms into it. Outside, the coachman met them with a large umbrella, and they hunched beneath it and hurried toward Stratford’s carriage.

He held her hand as they rode to Mayfair, images of stealing her away and dragging her to the altar cascading through his head.

But by the time they arrived at Lady Devore’s door, he had recalled himself and was a gentleman. He bade her farewell, tipped his hat, kissed the back of her hand, and said he sincerely hoped to see her again very soon.

He hated watching her turn away from him, though. And when the door closed behind her, he felt utterly alone.

Chapter Ten

T
he next evening, Jack relaxed before a cheerful, crackling fire, sharing a fine brandy with Stratford in his drawing room.

“So…” Leaning back in his sleek leather armchair, the earl crossed his feet at the ankles. He was dressed for going out, in a nondescript but finely tailored gray striped waistcoat and double-breasted cutaway tailcoat with smooth dark satin lapels. “What next?”

Jack took a swallow of brandy and savored the burn down his throat. “She is thawing.”

“Is she really?” Stratford shook his head, musing. “Shocking, really, considering the company she keeps.”

“What do you mean?”

Stratford’s face bore no expression. “Lady Devore. I know that woman, Fulton. She is an icicle, and she holds a grudge forever. I am surprised she hasn’t turned the lady against you completely.”

“She has been quite generous toward me,” Jack said, and then he pointed out, “You had an affair with her, and yet she treats you with civility.”

“She treats me with far more civility than is warranted, but she simmers on the inside. She hates me—I see it in her eyes.” Stratford flicked a piece of dust from his sleeve. He didn’t seem at all perturbed by his admission. He said the words in a flat, confident tone that made Jack slightly uneasy. Perhaps his friend was even more world-weary than he was.

“The clock is ticking, Fulton.” Stratford settled back in his chair. “Less than a month remains. Hardly enough time to plan a wedding, much less marry the girl properly, withdraw her funds, and dispense them without evoking suspicion.”

“True enough,” Jack said easily. “But I have resolved to take this day by day. I’m happy with my progress. As I told you, she is thawing.”

“Your accelerated courting technique might not be accelerated enough.” Stratford frowned. “What will you do if you run out of time? Resort to whisking an heiress spinster off to Gretna? Or perhaps give up on the scheme altogether and escape to the Continent?”

“If I escape to the Continent, or anywhere else, I will never be able to return to England.” Jack stared moodily into the fire, rubbing his near-empty glass along his lips. He wasn’t afraid of losing Becky, but Stratford was right—he
was
running out of time. Yet he couldn’t—he
wouldn’t
—force her to go any faster than she was willing to go. If he forced her, he might lose her.