Pure Temptation (8 page)

Moira drew her cape around her chilled body and huddled in the farthest corner of the coach. The night was raw and blustery but could not compare with the coldness inside her soul. She would rather die than be used and abused by Lord Roger and his evil cohorts. Moira had always considered herself a resourceful woman, and becoming someone’s victim did not appeal to her. Her mind raced furiously, searching for a way to escape.

When Roger sat back and leaned his head against the backrest of the speeding coach, Moira shifted her gaze past his relaxed body to the door handle, so close yet so far. If she lunged past Roger when he least expected it, was it possible to plunge down the door handle and leap through the opening before he could stop her? She would likely suffer a small injury, but if luck was with her, she’d be up and away before Lord Roger gained his wits.

Moira’s chance came when the coach skidded around a corner, throwing Roger off balance. In that split second Moira made her move. Lunging past Roger’s knees, she pushed down on the door handle and hurled herself through the opening. She hit the ground with a resounding thud, crying out in pain when she struck her head a stunning blow. Rolling head over heels in the dirt and mud, she came to rest in the filth-strewn gutter. Stunned, she lay still as death, every muscle wrenched, every bone jarred, unable to breathe, let alone move, her head pounding.

The coach clattered to a halt a few yards down the deserted street. Roger was out the door before it came to a full stop. A few seconds later, the coachman joined him. Together they ran to the place where Moira had fallen.

“Is she dead, milord?” Stiles asked fearfully as he peered into Moira’s white face.

“See if she’s breathing,” Roger ordered, too fastidious to touch the lifeless bundle lying at his feet in the filthy gutter.

Stiles knelt and placed his ear on Moira’s chest. “I don’t hear a heartbeat, milord.”

“Bloody hell. Let’s get out of here before someone happens along. My father will have a fit if my name is linked to Moira’s death. Take me to the Renfrew mansion. I need blunt to buy passage to France, and Renfrew owes me a favor. I’ll return when all this blows over. I’ll make up some story for you to tell my father. If you value your life, I suggest you forget tonight ever happened.”

Stiles blanched. “Ye can trust me, milord. Nary a peep will leave me lips.”

Moira drew in a shuddering breath when Roger hauled himself back to the coach. When she fell the breath had been knocked from her lungs, and she had deliberately withheld air in order to convince Roger she was dead. Lord knows she felt dead. When she tried to rise, her body refused to obey, and she lay unmoving in the freezing rain, thinking she’d probably freeze to death before someone happened along. Marshaling her meager strength, she tried to stand by bracing herself on her arms. Debilitating, excruciating pain shattered through her. She screamed and sank into oblivion.

Moira was still screaming when she awakened from her terrifying dream. She would have died from exposure if Jack hadn’t found her. She owed him her life and deeply regretted
the fact that she couldn’t tell him he hadn’t been the cause of her injuries.

Suddenly the bedroom door burst inward and she saw Jack’s tall, muscular form outlined against the gray dawn. He wore only his breeches, left gaping open in his haste to slay the dragons attacking Moira.

“What’s wrong? Are you ill?”

Moira sat up, hugging the sheet to her breasts. “Nothing is wrong.”

Jack crossed to the bed, stopping along the way to light a candle.

“Something is wrong. You screamed. I heard your cry clear down to the guest room. Look at you, your cheeks are wet. Have you been crying? You’re white as a ghost.” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Don’t tell me Lady Amelia paid you a visit. I thought she only haunted family.”

“Lady Amelia?” Comprehension dawned. “The ghost? No, nothing like that. I hadn’t realized I cried out. It must have been a nightmare,” she said, unwilling to disclose the details of her disturbing flashback.

Jack perched on the edge of the bed, taking her trembling hands in his. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

Moira shook her head. “I can’t.”

“Don’t you trust me?” Tenderly, he brushed a stray tear from her cheek. “Why were you crying?”

“I hadn’t realized I was. ’Tis nothing, truly. I’m sorry I awakened you.”

“Bloody hell,” Jack cursed, rising abruptly. He ached to stay with her but knew what it would lead to. “Get some sleep. We’re to attend a ball at Vauxhall tonight, and I want you at your best.”

Sleep, Moira thought bleakly. Would she ever sleep again? What would happen to her when Roger returned from France and they chanced to meet at a party? After careful consideration, she decided her safest course was to marry
well and let her husband’s name protect her. With those thoughts in mind, she finally drifted off to sleep.

Jack knew the moment he entered his room that he wasn’t alone. He groaned in dismay when the shrouded figure of Lady Amelia’s ghost pulsed with eerie light.

“What do you want now?” Jack asked irritably. “I’m in no mood for your haunting.”

Lady Amelia’s celestial light dimmed a bit as Jack threw himself down on the bed and flung an arm over his eyes.

“Why are you doing this to me?” he challenged. “My life was carefree and untroubled until you threw Miss Moira O’Toole into my path. What in bloody hell did you hope to gain? I was more than content to spend my nights drinking, gambling and carousing. I’m marrying money; that ought to make you happy, since the house will now stay in the family and you can continue to haunt future Graystokes, should I produce an heir. Which is highly unlikely, knowing Victoria.”

Lady Amelia floated across the room to hover beside the bed. She looked down at Jack and shook her head. Sensing her nearness, Jack removed his arm from his eyes and stared back at her.

“You don’t talk much, do you? For God’s sake, listen to me. I’m talking to a ghost! Ah, well, what does it matter since you can’t repeat what I say.

“I don’t know what to make of Moira, or my feelings where she’s concerned,” Jack continued, as if talking to a ghost was a natural occurrence. “Damned if I don’t find myself wanting the sensuous Irish light-skirt. I can’t recall when I’ve been so bewitched by a woman. Granted she’s not your usual Irish servant, but that’s no reason for me to wish for things that can never be. I
need
to marry money.”

Lady Amelia leaned closer, so close that Jack felt the heat of her brilliant light warm his body. She shook her finger at him, as if scolding him for something he’d said.

“This is your doing, isn’t it?” Jack accused. “If not for you, I wouldn’t be hot to bed a woman who’s had one too many lovers. My emotions where Moira is concerned are tautly drawn and at odds with what I know about her. I’ve accepted responsibility for her injuries and am doing my level best to see to her future, but perversely, I don’t want another man involved in her life. What in the hell is wrong with me? Is Moira a witch as well as a whore? If you think Moira will somehow redeem my soul, you’re wrong as hell. Perdition has already claimed me.”

Lady Amelia seemed upset by Jack’s outburst. With a toss of her head, she began fading away into a pinpoint of light, finally disappearing completely, leaving Jack with a strange emptiness that had nothing to do with his meddling ancestor or her obvious disapproval of him.

Moira felt the effects of attending three balls in a row in her aching feet, slumping shoulders and tired facial muscles, stretched unnaturally into a perpetual smile. And next week would be just as busy. Invitations arrived daily for one society function or another. For the past two weeks she had laughed, danced and eaten her way through countless parties with countless men paying her court.

Following the first ball, Lords Harrington, Renfrew and Merriweather had called upon her at Graystoke Manor in fashionable Hanover Square, bearing gifts and flowers. She had been invited for drives through the park and various other activities, earning Jack’s displeasure. No matter which suitor she saw, Jack disapproved. In truth, Moira found little to admire in her suitors except for their wealth.

Soon her three admirers were joined by yet another ardent swain, Viscount Peabody, somewhat older than the others but just as rich and in line for a dukedom. Moira was bewildered by Jack’s response to her popularity. As the number of her suitors increased, Jack became more disgruntled.

“I don’t want you going out alone with any of those men,” Jack told her after a visit from Lord Renfrew. “Be sure and take Jilly with you. They are all notorious rakes and womanizers. When I see them posturing and preening for your benefit, I thank God I am neither titled nor a macaroni dandy.”

“You’re a baronet,” Moira reminded him.

“Ah, but baronets are not peers. I may travel in the same circles, but I am just a cut above a commoner.”

Moira thought Jack anything but common. “Do none of my suitors please you?”

Jack frowned, wondering the same thing. “I am responsible for you. I’d not like to see you make a disastrous marriage. Surely you can’t be serious about either Harrington, Renfrew, Merriweather or Peabody, can you? Have they dazzled you with their gifts and compliments? Do you fancy any of them?” His voice had a hard edge to it that betrayed his annoyance.

“Lord Peabody seems very nice, not like the others who are vying with one another for my favors.”

“Peabody has already done in two wives. Do you want to be his third victim?” Jack asked tightly.

“He killed them?”

“Well, no,” Jack admitted, “but he left his first wife in the country to bear their child alone. ’Tis rumored she died of heartbreak due to her husband’s neglect, though the doctor said she expired from an illness brought on by complications of childbirth. The second was killed in an accident.”

“Jack Graystoke, you know better than to listen to gossip! Lord Peabody seems too nice to be guilty of the things you’re suggesting.”

“Nevertheless, he’s not good enough for you. We’ve got time. Someone I approve of is bound to come along.”

Moira seriously doubted Jack would find anyone he approved of, and she couldn’t imagine why. He’d told her Victoria wouldn’t marry him until Moira was established in her own household, so why was he being so obstinate about this?

“I’ll make up my own mind, thank you. Where are we going tonight?”

“We’re going to the Duke of Marlboro’s reception for a visiting dignitary from Russia. Prince Gregor Vasilov is in London with his retinue, and I was lucky enough to wrangle an invitation. Everyone who is anyone will be there.”

The opulence of Lord Marlboro’s house was staggering. The ballroom was twice—nay, three times—the size of their entire cottage in Ireland. The rooms were ablaze with thousands of candles, and the buffet set up in the dining room contained food she was unfamiliar with, prepared by chefs with culinary expertise beyond her imagination. Moira was so in awe of her surroundings that she felt woefully inadequate and out of place.

She was grateful for her four swains, who rarely left her side, and for Jack, who maintained watch over her. The highlight of the evening came when Jack presented her to Prince Vasilov, who had begged for an introduction. The prince was an impressive blond giant dressed in a dazzling white uniform embellished with shiny gold braid. In contrast to his fairness, his eyes were as black as sin, their lively twinkle making his handsome features come alive. His smile, as he bent over Moira’s hand, was capable of chasing away the darkest gloom.

“You are enchanting, mademoiselle,” the prince said in French-accented English. French was the language of the Russian court, and all noblemen spoke it fluently. “I am Prince Gregor Vasilov. Will you honor me with a dance?”

“I’d be delighted,” Moira said, returning the prince’s smile. The dance happened to be a waltz, and he swept her away, leaving a scowling Jack in his wake.

“Moira’s made another conquest,” Spence said as he came up beside Jack. “I hadn’t counted on a Russian prince, but he’ll serve if he wants her badly enough.”

“He can’t have her!” Jack thundered ominously. Those close enough to hear looked at him curiously.

“Not so loud,” Spence warned. “What in the devil is the matter with you? We wanted a little diversion from boredom, and that’s what we’re getting. ’Tis amusing the way Renfrew, Harrington, Merriweather and Peabody are fawning over Moira, thinking her a lady. And now the prince. ’Tis well
worth the two thousand pounds if she bags royalty. Ah, there’s Lady Gwen. I’ve been looking for her. Tell Moira I said she’s doing splendidly.”

Jack’s fingers raked through his hair, becoming more discomfited by the minute as the prince held Moira much too close for his liking. He was on the verge of rushing to the dance floor and tearing her from the prince’s arms when Victoria approached, clearly annoyed.

“Well, who would have thought your penniless Irish ward would attract a prince?” Victoria sounded more jealous than surprised. “I hear he’s unmarried. Do you suppose she has a chance with him?”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Jack bit out. “She’s reaching too far above her. I had thought a viscount or marquess, even a duke, but a prince is out of the question.”

Victoria yawned, bored with the subject. “I’m dying of thirst, darling. Would you get me something to drink from the refreshment room?”

“Of course,” Jack said with a hint of impatience. He stalked off, but instead of going to the refreshment room, he waited at the edge of the dance floor for the music to end so he could drag Moira off for a private word.

Moira was enjoying herself immensely with the prince, who seemed utterly taken with her. She saw Jack glowering at her from the corner of her eye and briefly thought she detected a hint of jealousy in his fulminating glare. Grasping for rationality, she chided herself for a fool and turned her attention back to Prince Gregor. Jack’s only interest in her was finding her a husband so he could transfer responsibility to another.

“Will you honor me with another dance later?” Prince Vasilov asked as the dance ended. “I find you fascinating, mademoiselle. Are all Irish women as enchanting as you?”

“You flatter me, Prince,” Moira said coyly. “There are women here tonight who far outshine me.”

“Not in my eyes,
ma petite.
Will you allow me to call on you tomorrow?”

They had reached the edge of the floor where Jack stood waiting. “Lady Moira isn’t receiving tomorrow,” he said bluntly as he snatched her away before either Moira or the prince could protest.

“What’s the matter with you?” Moira hissed, her displeasure obvious.

“We need to talk.”

Moira sighed in resignation as she followed him from the ballroom into a small unoccupied anteroom nearby. “What is it now, Jack? Are you going to tell me that Prince Vasilov is a lecher?”

“You’re enamored with him,” Jack accused. “Set your sights elsewhere, Moira. The prince must marry royalty; you can reach no higher than his mistress.”

“Why won’t you let him call on me?”

“Bloody hell! It’s bad enough having those four rakes drooling over you. I refuse to endure a love-struck prince who can offer you nothing honorable.”

Moira stifled a smile. Instinct told her that Jack was jealous, and her heart soared in unrestrained joy. The moment men had started courting her, he began acting strangely. Daring to hope that he cared for her was almost too much to ask.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous, Jack.”

There was an explosive silence. Jealous? Jack’s thoughts scattered. Is that what was wrong with him? That revelation was definitely annoying…and probably true. “Damn right I’m jealous!” he all but shouted. His admission shocked them both. “I made you what you are. No one has more right than I to become your lover. I don’t understand your rejection. Or perhaps I do,” he amended bitterly. “There is no way I can compete with wealth or title.”

“This charade was your doing,” Moira reminded him. “I wanted to leave Graystoke Manor after I recovered from my injuries.”

“Injuries I was responsible for,” Jack returned, suddenly realizing how unreasonable he had been acting. “Forgive me for interfering. Go back to your swains.” He turned away with visible regret.

Moira wanted to call him back but knew she had no right. Jack belonged to Lady Victoria. He needed to marry money even more than she did. She watched him leave, biting her tongue lest she cry out his name as she sank down into the nearest chair.

“Here you are, my dear. I saw Sir Jack leaving a moment ago and hoped I’d find you alone. I have something important to ask you.”

Moira watched warily as Lord Percy Renfrew seated himself on a stool at her feet.

“How long have we known one another? Three, four weeks?” Renfrew asked, taking her small hand in his. “No matter, ’tis long enough to know you’re the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife, Lady Moira?”

Renfrew hoped he’d used the right note of sincerity. His parents were breathing down his neck to marry, and Moira seemed to have no inkling of his affiliation with the Hellfire Club. Most of the disciples went to great lengths to conceal their identities, and he was no different.

Moira stared at Renfrew, thinking this proposal was exactly what Jack had been grooming her for. “I’m honored, Lord Renfrew, but…”

“But what? If you’re worried about Sir Jack, I assure you he’ll be delighted. My lineage is impeccable.”

“I have no fortune and no dowry,” Moira said evasively. “My family is an old one, but we have no wealth to speak of.”
At least part of her statement was true. If there was nobility in her family, she had yet to discover it.

“I’m rich enough to marry whomever I please. I can’t recall when I’ve been so taken with a woman.” True enough. “My parents will be delighted that I am finally taking a wife and will offer no objections when they learn your family is suitable.”

In his exuberance, Renfrew dropped to his knees before Moira and raised her hand to his lips. “Say yes, my dear, and we’ll announce our engagement tonight.”

“I need Sir Jack’s consent,” Moira temporized. “Give me time to consider.”

Percy frowned, thinking Moira was holding out for higher stakes. “If you think Prince Vasilov will offer for you, you’re mistaken. He needs to marry royalty. I know he seems taken with you, and he’s handsome as sin, but he can only set you up as his mistress. I offer my name and respectability.”

“I know. And I assure you Prince Vasilov has made no such offer.”

“Very well. A week, no longer. Meanwhile, don’t let the others talk you into anything. They all have designs on you, not all of them honorable.”

“You’ll have my answer at the end of the week, milord,” Moira said demurely.

Renfrew gave her a dazzling smile, rose to his feet and pulled Moira with him. “Since we are all but engaged, I think a kiss is in order.”

He pulled her close, molding her body to his. She felt the leashed passion coiled inside him and shuddered delicately. The thought of giving her body to Lord Renfrew made her physically ill. Had Jack been holding her instead of Lord Renfrew, she was certain she’d feel no such revulsion. Then Renfrew kissed her, his mouth wet and hot, his tongue a revolting spear of flesh that sought more intimacy than she
was willing to give. When his hands brushed the undersides of her breasts, Moira knew real panic. How could she ever marry a man she didn’t love—didn’t even like—and submit to all the intimacies marriage demanded?

“Sorry, I didn’t know this room was occupied.” Jack stood in the doorway with Lady Victoria. His gaze was riveted on Moira, his eyes a turbulent gray that reminded her of a violent storm-tossed sea.

Renfrew stepped away from Moira with reluctance, but not before Jack saw where his hands had been. Jack’s eyes narrowed when he noted what appeared to be Moira’s aroused state. Her breath escaped her parted lips in rapid puffs of air, and her eyes were glazed with what he mistakenly thought was passion.

“Damn, Graystoke, you could have knocked,” Renfrew said mulishly.

“Let’s find another room, darling,” Victoria urged. “Can’t you see these lovers want to be alone?”

That’s exactly what worried Jack.

Moira closed her eyes, her expression stark with relief. “No need to leave on our account,” she said in a rush. “I was just leaving. I promised another dance to Prince Gregor, and I’d hate to disappoint him.”

When she rushed from the room, Renfrew threw up his hands in disgust and rushed after her.

“It looks as if we burst in on a private moment.” Victoria giggled. “I don’t think your ward is as innocent as she pretends. After that little seduction scene, perhaps you can convince Renfrew to offer for her. The situation looked compromising to me.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Jack said, not at all amused. “I had no idea Renfrew would attempt seduction this soon, though he’s a notorious rake and I should have expected it. And here I was worried about Prince Vasilov. Nevertheless, I
think we should return to the ballroom where I can keep an eye on my ward. She has a way of inviting trouble.”

“What about the privacy we sought for ourselves?” Victoria asked, pouting. She didn’t like having her own plans for Jack thwarted. She and Jack hadn’t had a private moment in weeks, and she was aching for him.

“Another time,” Jack promised, chafing to return to the ballroom where he could keep an eye on Moira. He all but pulled Victoria from the room.