My Seductive Innocent (3 page)

Nathan cringed. Ellison’s words struck a nerve. His aunt shared more than the blood of a sister with his deceased mother. The women had been the same in personality, too: impossible to make happy and devoid of love.

He stared at Ellison. “But how long will she be happy? An hour if it’s a good day, a few minutes if it’s bad.”

“Scarsdale,” Ellison growled.

Nathan shook his head. “No, let me finish. I don’t want to see you continue to waste your life trying to make your mother, or any woman, happy. It’s an impossible task. You know I understand what that’s like.” He’d been foolish enough once to think he could make his mother love him.

“She’s not like your mother was,” Ellison said under his breath.

Nathan leaned closer to his cousin. “You’re right. Your mother is still alive while mine is dead. I’m free of her sharp tongue, whereas you allow Aunt Harriet to cut you anew every day.”

“Scarsdale, don’t.” Ellison’s liquor-soaked breath swirled in the air between them. “You’re wrong about her.”

Nathan nodded, stepping back immediately and tugging his hand through his hair. He’d promised himself ages ago that he wouldn’t try to talk to his cousin about his controlling mother again, as Ellison always angered when he did so.

A tick started on the right side of Nathan’s jaw. It was this damn ball making him cracked. He didn’t like feeling trapped, and that was exactly how he was feeling. He clapped Ellison on the shoulder and felt his cousin twitch in surprise. Nathan forced a smile. “I’m leaving, but you may tell Aunt Harriet I’ll depart one week from today to meet the horse trainer.”

“You’re what?” Amelia gasped and rushed toward him. “You cannot leave! This is your ball!”

Nathan resisted the urge to tweak Amelia on the chin for her audacity in claiming such a lie. He was positive that touching the duchess, even in a brotherly fashion, would raise Aversley’s temper—his friend was amusingly possessive over his wife—so he quickly added, “My dear, this is
your
ball, and it just so happens to be in my home. Is it not, Aversley?”

Aversley nodded, which elicited an angry huff from his wife, followed by her muttering, “Traitor.”

“I’m sorry, darling,” Aversley crooned nauseatingly as he moved closer to her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “But I did warn you Scarsdale was apt to leave his own home if you pushed him too far.”

The duchess’s jaw dropped open, and she stared between the two of them. After a moment, she clamped her mouth shut, crossed her arms, and started tapping her foot. “And just where are you going? And what am I to tell people?”

“I’m going somewhere I cannot speak of in front of a proper lady, and you may tell them whatever you wish.” White’s followed by a trip to visit his current paramour, Marguerite, seemed like an excellent way to end the night on a high note.

“But―”

“Tell them I’ve taken ill,” he said. “But bid them all to enjoy themselves. As long as they are gone when I return in the morning.”

Amelia frowned. “In the morning? But where will you―” Her eyes grew wide as a blush tinged her cheeks. “I think you enjoy shocking people.”

“No, I just don’t feel the need to pretend to be someone I’m not. And if that shocks or offends, then so be it. Now, if you will all excuse me.” He turned on his heel and made his way to the door. His cousin stood there, appearing as if he was waiting to go with him.

That would be a first, and not entirely welcome tonight, given Ellison’s current state, but Nathan didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “Do you want to come with me?”

“Where are you going?”

“To White’s to start.”

Ellison shook his head. “I better not. Last time you were in a mood like this was in the country at Whitecliffe. Do you remember? You introduced me to those two young
eager
seamstresses who work for that French woman... What’s her name?”

“Madame Lexington,” Nathan replied, slightly irritated that Ellison was bringing up a time he knew was the darkest period in Nathan’s life. A time he’d acted in ways he was ashamed of.

“Ah, yes,” Ellison said. “The only problem with those wenches was they were not eager to be introduced to
me
. They only wanted to entertain the mighty Duke of Scarsdale. I’m still nursing my wounded pride, so I’ll pass.”

Nathan fought the urge to glare at his cousin, but he knew Ellison likely hadn’t considered how Nathan would feel about the subject. So instead, he simply answered, “So be it.”

“I’m coming, Scarsdale,” Harthorne called and strode across the room.

“Philip!” Amelia moaned. “You cannot be serious.”

Harthorne paused by Nathan and faced his sister. “Someone has to keep Scarsdale out of trouble.”

“Ha!” Amelia retorted. “It’s more likely he’ll corrupt you than anything.”

“She’s right,” Nathan added with a chuckle. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay here in the warmth and safety of a ballroom filled with ladies looking for husbands?”

“It’s become apparent to me that they only want a husband with means, which I currently do not possess. So I might as well go out tonight and have some fun.”

“After you,” Nathan said, stepping back to allow Harthorne out the door. Behind them, he could hear Amelia bemoaning the night, her brother, but most of all Nathan for not coming to his senses and for leaving her in such an awkward position. He almost relented and stayed, but then he remembered she had tried to play matchmaker. Grinning, he picked up his pace and showed Harthorne to, and through, the hundred-year-old secret passage that had been created...in case there was ever a need to escape unseen.

A
couple of hours later, they emerged from White’s with Harthorne leaning heavily on Nathan as he assisted his now-inebriated friend down the steps toward the carriage he’d requested. Outside, the mild temperature had disappeared, replaced by a gusty wind and a chill that caused every exhale to come out in a ring of light-gray smoke.

“I don’t feel well,” Harthorne said on a hiccup.

“One wonders why,” Nathan grumbled.

Harthorne stopped walking and swiveled his head toward Nathan. “I don’t think drinking large quantities agrees with me.” His face did have a greenish tint to it. “Both times I’ve ever done so, I’ve felt briefly unpleasing.”

“Unpleasing?”

Harthorne grinned before hiccupping again. “Beg pardon. Unpleasant. My stomach found the liquor unpleasant.”

“Ah, I see. And what happened?” Nathan inquired, seeing as if Harthorne lost his accounts it would be all over Nathan. He would do a great deal for his friends, but he’d rather not wear their food if he could avoid it.

“I ruined Aversley’s carriage.” Harthorne clamped a hand to his mouth and, after a moment, slowly peeled it away. “Do you think we could walk for a minute?”

“By all means,” Nathan replied waving to his coachman, Wilson, who had been standing at the ready, to wait.

After strolling for a bit, Harthorne decided he was well enough to ride in the carriage, so they headed back toward White’s. As they neared Nathan’s carriage, a gust of wind blew his hat off his head and sent it tumbling across the street and into the shadows. Nathan squinted at the ill-lit street where his hat had flown.

“Shall I fetch it for you, Your Grace?” Wilson inquired.

“No, I’ll get it. I won’t be a minute.”

The men nodded, and Wilson helped a staggering Harthorne into the carriage while Nathan crossed the street and located his hat. As he started back, the sound of wheels turning along the road filled the silence. Nathan glanced to his left, surprised to see a carriage whipping around the corner at full speed. For a moment, he froze in his spot, until he realized the carriage was not going to stop. His heart exploded as he jumped back, out of the way of the driver, who had to have been foxed himself to be driving so recklessly. Nathan gaped at the carriage as it disappeared into the dark night.

Wilson and Harthorne reached Nathan at nearly the same moment. Harthorne gawked, open-mouthed in the direction Nathan had been looking. “Made any particular enemies lately?”

Nathan shook his head. “Not lately. Though I’ve a few men that would probably like to kill me.”

Harthorne guffawed. “I’d say. Lord Peabody complains that his mistress always compares his performance to yours when she was your mistress.”

Nathan pressed his mouth together in distaste. “I’d rather not know Lord Peabody’s failings in the bedchamber.”

Harthorne nodded. “Didn’t look like Peabody’s carriage, anyway.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“Didn’t look like any carriage I’ve ever seen. Who else has you on their kill list?” Harthorne joked.

Nathan shrugged. “I don’t waste my time worrying about who thinks I’ve wronged them. If someone wants to kill me, I dare them to try it.”

Harthorne whistled. “Bold words. Especially considering you did just almost meet your maker.”

Nathan stared at the spot where the carriage had raced by. “Indeed. One more inch to the right and I would’ve been the latest on-dit tomorrow.”

Harthorne slung his arm over Nathan’s shoulder and grinned. “The matchmaking mamas would be bawling over the loss of a marriage prospect such as you.”

Nathan snorted.

“Wha’s that?” Harthorne squinted with one eye at him. “Don’t tell me you plan to never marry.”

Nathan couldn’t help but chuckle at the incredulous note in his friend’s voice. Harthorne needed to relinquish his foolish, romantic notions of marriage. “As I said earlier, I’ll marry,” Nathan confirmed.

“Superb!” Harthorne crowed with brandy-aided gusto.

“To secure my line.”

“What of love?”

Harthorne swayed slightly, and Nathan gripped his friend’s arm tighter in case he should fall. “Love is for fools.”

Harthorne lurched upright. “Are you calling me a fool?”

Indignation rang in Harthorne’s voice, but the grin offset the offended effect of the tone.

Nathan shrugged. “If the cap fits...”

N
ewmarket, Suffolk, England

One Week Later

Sophia Vane leaned her elbows against the bar and tried to block out the sounds of the clanking ale tankards and raucous male laughter that surrounded her. She pictured herself floating in the stream just down the road, or lying on the cot that was her bed, or even just sitting among the wildflowers that bloomed in the meadows in the summer. Basically, she pictured herself anywhere but here, just so she would be able to endure another day at the Breeding Tavern without going cracked. Then she pictured the bag of money she’d been saving and the letter her deceased mother had written to her before Sophia had even been born. Both the money and the letter were hidden in the floorboards under her younger half brother, Harry’s, bedroll, waiting until it was time to escape.

The letter was her most treasured possession. Sophia had read the letter so many times since her eighth birthday when Frank had given it to her that she knew each word by heart and could clearly picture her mother’s lovely flowing handwriting.

Frank had shoved the letter at her with the odd remark that her mother couldn’t haunt him as she’d threatened to do now that he’d fulfilled her dying wish of giving Sophia the letter on her eighth birthday. Thank God her mother had possessed the foresight to prey on Frank’s superstitious nature.