The Seducer (30 page)

She stroked her fingers through his hair. “So I know everything now. There are no more mysteries. Except one.”

“What is that?”

“My father said that there were no St. Johns waiting on the coast all those years ago. Nor any St. Clairs, the name you used when you ruined him. So, tell me, husband, who are you? If your history is to be my history, I want to know.”

He rose up on his arms and looked down at her. “Today, now, I am Daniel St. John. However, I was born Daniel de la Tour. My father taught ancient languages at the university in Paris.”

“And your mother?”

She sensed an echo of the old anguish quake in him, and instantly regretted the question.

“My mother was the youngest daughter of a baron. She married far below her family’s station and was disowned by them. That meant nothing in the end, however.”

“You told me in Scotland that your father was not an aristocrat. You neglected to mention that your mother was.”

He settled back down into their embrace. “An oversight.”

She laughed. “Have there been other oversights?”

He shrugged. “I should probably mention that I am the last of the line, except for Jeanette.”

“That means that you are now the baron.”

“I suppose so, if I want to try and claim it. Louis’s word on my identity may be enough.”

“Do you want to claim it?”

He did not answer for a while. She sensed a new shadow in him.

“It will be some time before I know that. My family did not believe in such privilege. Like many intellectuals, my father approved of the revolution, and as a boy I thought it a good and necessary thing, a blow for equality. We never expected it to eventually devour us, too, of course.”

She did not know what to say. She had thought that she knew all of the mysteries, but she had not guessed that this final one lurked in his soul. The great cause he had believed in eventually took away all he held dear. It added a dark nuance to his boyhood experiences, and another snarl to the tangle of emotions that had driven him all his life.

The final confidence lightened his mood. He kissed her cheek. “Such things are not so important anymore. I have other things to occupy my thoughts now.”

“What things?”

“You, and the gift you have given me in your love. Without you, I would be bereft today. Empty, with one life over and no new one waiting. Instead I am glad it is finished. Relieved. We will build a new life together, anywhere you want. All that matters to me is that you are with me and that your love is mine.”

“It is yours forever. Loving you makes me whole. If not for you, I would still be an orphan with no history or family. Even finding Jonathan could not have filled the void I once lived with. Only loving you did.”

“We were both orphans, Diane. But that is over now. We will make our own family, and a new history.”

Hearing the confidence and certainty in his voice moved her more than she could contain. Her heart swelled, filling with the promise their love offered.

“Diane, the night before the duel, when you came to me—that was very brave and generous. Telling me that you loved me—that broke through clouds in my heart that were dark and old. Until that night, I had not even realized how they dimmed the world.”

It had not been brave. It had been necessary, for herself and her own heart.

He looked down with his body still pressed to hers. Night hid his expression, but she could feel his total attention on her.

He kissed her. “Thank you.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Madeline Hunter
has worked as a grocery clerk, office employee, art dealer, and freelance writer. She holds a Ph.D. in art history, which she currently teaches at an eastern university. She lives in Pennsylvania with her husband, her two teenage sons, a chubby, adorable mutt, and a black cat with a major attitude. She can be contacted through her website,
www.MadelineHunter.com
.

Also by Madeline Hunter

B
Y
A
RRANGEMENT

B
Y
P
OSSESSION

B
Y
D
ESIGN

T
HE
P
ROTECTOR

L
ORD OF A
T
HOUSAND
N
IGHTS

S
TEALING
H
EAVEN

Coming soon

T
HE
S
AINT

T
HE
C
HARMER

T
HE
S
INNER

“Madeline Hunter makes an explosive shift to the Regency era with THE SEDUCER, a smoldering tale of power and passion.”
—Mary Jo Putney, New York Times bestselling author

Let Madeline Hunter draw you into
the hearts of three irresistible men:

THE SEDUCER

Daniel St. John
         Charismatic and mysterious, this dangerously seductive man has survived a treacherous revolution: a master at the arts of war and intrigue, he knows the secrets of winning a woman’s heart . . . and body.

THE SAINT

Vergil Duclairc
         This dashing nobleman leads a dangerous double life: beneath his perfect composure and self-control is a sensual master whose mere touch can tempt a woman to the wildest abandon.

THE CHARMER

Adrian Burchard
         This virile aristocrat was used to having women at his command: darkly handsome, sensuous, magnetic, he lived in a world of mysteries and secrets . . . a man dangerous to love, impossible to resist.

Fighters, protectors, and lovers, they live in a dazzling and treacherous world of glittering ballrooms and sinful gaming halls, in a time of heart-stopping duels and soul-searing passion.

These are their stories. . . .

And look for two new tales of
seduction and scandal . . .

Madeline Hunter’s

THE SAINT

Vergil’s story

November 2003

and

THE CHARMER

Adrian’s story

December 2003

Read on for a preview. . . .

And look for the glorious finale
to Madeline Hunter’s “Seducer” series
in THE SINNER, Dante’s story,
in January 2004!

THE SAINT

On sale November 2003

I
still don’t understand your impatience,” Dante said. He flicked cigar ash out the coach window. “No reason to drag me back from Scotland. She doesn’t come of age for almost a year.”

That was an eternity by the way Dante calculated his calendar with women. Normally he would court, seduce, bed, and discard two mistresses in that time. Vergil studied his younger brother’s beautiful face, limpid eyes and dark brown hair. Dante’s history with females had almost been inevitable with features like that. Vergil had seen ladies of the highest breeding catch their breath when Dante approached.

“The season starts well before her birthday, and with Charlotte coming out we can hardly leave Miss Kenwood here while we all pack ourselves off to town. You need to be married before then, not just engaged.”

“Why? Do you think some fortune hunter will cut me out?” Dante’s tone implied the notion was preposterous.

No, I think that if she is married we can prevent her from going up to London at all, if necessary,
Vergil thought. The very notion of Bianca Kenwood in polite society, calling dukes and earls “Mister” and announcing that she intended to study performance opera, was enough to ruin his spirits on this late August day.

But Dante’s question also pricked at the foreboding that had continued to plague him since he had left Penelope’s house. It might be best for Dante to get this over with while the field was clear.

Dante looked him squarely in the eyes. “We are almost there. Don’t you think you should tell me now?”

“Tell you?”

“You haven’t said much about this Miss Kenwood, whom I am expected to marry. I find that suspicious. After all, you have met her. We both know that I have no choice except to agree to this, but if warnings are in order, you are running out of time.”

“If I have not described her in detail it is because it would be indelicate to do so. This is not one of your racehorses.”

“You have not described her at all.”

“Very well. She is of middling height and slender, with blue eyes.”

“What color hair?”

Damned if he knew. What color hair had been hidden by that ridiculous wig?

“Just how bad is she?”

Vergil had fully intended to warn Dante but had failed to come up with the right approach. A tinge of guilt colored his reflections while he debated the appropriate one now. After all, he had practically forced his brother into this. Not that Dante had resisted much once he learned that over five thousand a year came with her.

“It is not her appearance. Her manner, however . . .”

“Is that all? Just like you to get stuffy about a few
faux pas.
What did you expect? She is an American. Pen will shape her up in no time.”

A few
faux pas
did not do Bianca Kenwood justice, but he let it pass. “Of course. However, even so, she is . . . distinctive.”

“Distinctive?”

“One might even say unusual.”

“Unusual?”

“And perhaps a bit . . . unfinished. Which can be remedied, of course. Pen has her in hand even as we speak.”

Dante peevishly looked out the coach window at the passing Sussex countryside. Vergil hesitated continuing, but they
were
almost there and he
was
running out of time. “She may need a strong hand. She is a bit independent, from what I could tell.”

His brother’s gaze slid back to him. “Independent, now.”

“She has certain notions. It is her youth, and they will pass.”

“It would help immensely if you would balance some of this by adding how beautiful she is.”

No doubt. The problem was, he didn’t know if she was beautiful. He only remembered big eyes, interesting because of that intelligent and spirited spark in them.

What else could he offer? All that stage paint had been obscuring. The possibility of a lovely complexion, but who could be sure until he saw her washed? A nice form, but that might have been the costume. The suggestion of an underlying sensual quality . . . not something one noted about a brother’s future bride.

“Damn it, if she is vulgar I won’t go through with it, Vergil. Nor should you want me to. Aside from the fact that she would reflect on me and this family, I could hardly avoid her completely once married, even living in town and leaving her out here, which is how I plan to arrange things. And until you marry Fleur, which you are taking your damn sweet time doing, and set up your nursery, I am your heir and this American could end up the Viscountess Laclere.”

Vergil did not need his younger brother to list the pitfalls dotting this path. Pits much deeper and more numerous than Dante imagined. A honeycomb of them. If he could think of an alternative, he would use it, but two weeks of debating options always led him back to the same conclusion. Bianca Kenwood needed to be bound to this family with unbreakable chains.

Dante bit his lower lip and again looked out the window from beneath heavy lashes. “The income from her funds will be mine? As trustee you will not interfere? And my allowance continues until the wedding, enhanced as we agreed?”

“Of course. I also promise to continue management of the financial investments, as you requested. The income from the funds is secure, but the others require occasional oversight and I know that you hate such things.”

Dante gestured dismissively. “Sordid and nettlesome things. I doubt they are worth the trouble. Sell them out or hold them, as you judge best. After the way you scraped us through when Milton died, I would be a fool to question you.”

They rode in silence through the oak and ash forest filling the back of Laclere Park. Vergil much preferred this approach to the broad sweep of landscape facing the front, and always instructed his coachman to take it. Normally it served as transition space for him, a few miles in which to prepare himself for the role of Viscount Laclere and the responsibilities that it entailed.

He had first come this way when summoned by news of Milton’s death, choosing the longer route in order to delay that arrival, churning with conflicting emotions and spiking resentments at the changes in his life suddenly decreed by his older brother’s demise.

It was in this forest that he had finally accepted the new reality and its attendant restrictions. Little had he guessed how complicated his brother’s death would make his life. Along with restrictions, mysteries and deceptions had waited for him at journey’s end.

Dante suddenly leaned toward the window. He squinted. “What the . . .”

“Is something wrong?” Vergil pushed Dante’s head aside a bit and stuck his own to the opening.

“There, over in the lake. Wait, some trees are in the way. Now. Isn’t that Charlotte?”

The trees thinned while they began to pass the lake.

Two women bathed in the water, laughing and splashing.
Naked,
for all intents and purposes, since their chemises had gone transparent with water. Hell yes, it was their younger sister Charlotte, with that maid Jane Ormond.

The water broke and a third feminine body rose up. A soaked chemise adhered to her skin and obscured little. Pretty shoulders . . . tapered back . . . nipped waist . . . graceful hips . . . finally the tops of enticing rounded buttocks slid into view. Long blond hair fanned in the eddies and then clung to her body in a thick drop from a well-formed head.

Her slender arms began skimming the water’s surface, creating waves in the direction of her playmates. The other two squealed and started a massive counteroffensive of splashes, sending sprays of water all around her, until she appeared like a vision emerging out of a misty dream.

A shriek of joyful protest reached them. Laughing, she turned to run from the assault.

Vergil could not be sure that those large blue eyes actually saw the passing coach with its two stunned occupants. But she paused, and one arm slid across her breasts and the other hand drifted to the shadowed triangle just above her thighs. For the briefest instant before she turned and knelt, she assumed the pose of a Botticelli Venus, a goddess lovely of face and luscious of form, dripping wet, still virginal and modest but ripe and waiting. The combination of protective instincts and erotic suggestions that he had experienced in the music salon surged with force.

He and Dante found their sense at the same instant. They straightened and sank back into their seats.

His brother eyed him with suspicion. “Who was that?”

“I cannot be certain, but I think it was Miss Kenwood.”

Dante closed his eyes and rested his head against the seat’s back. “Let me make sure that I understand my position, Vergil. I am required to marry
that
? I am to be sacrificed on the altar of the god of financial stability and be forced to take as my lifelong partner that female we just saw? A girl so
distinctive, unusual,
and
independent
that she bathes almost naked in full view of a road, in broad daylight, and influences our sister to do the same thing? You intend to coerce me, if necessary, by threatening my allowance?
She
is the bride whom you have chosen for me?”

“Yes.” There really was nothing else to say.

Dante held his pensive pose a moment longer. His eyes opened. Their limpid warmth glowed. A very male smile slowly broke. “Thank you.”

THE CHARMER

On sale December 2003

~ May 1831

A
drian crossed the drawing room threshold and found himself in the middle of an Arabian harem.

Women swathed in colorful pantaloons and veils lounged beside men dressed in flowing robes. A fortune in silk billowed down from the high, frescoed ceiling, forming a massive tent. Two tiger skins stretched over the pastel tapestry rugs, and bejeweled pillows and throws buried settees and chairs. An exotic, heavy scent drifted under the fragrances of incense and perfume. Hashish. In the darkest corners some men kissed and fondled their ladies, but no outright orgy had ensued.

Yet.

A man on a mission with no interest in this type of diversion, Adrian walked slowly through the costumed bodies, looking for a female who fit the description of the Duchess of Everdon.

He noticed a canopied corner that appeared to be the place of honor. He aimed for it, ignoring the women who looked his way and smiled invitingly.

The canopy draped a small dais holding a chaise longue. A woman rested on it in a man’s arms. Her eyes were closed, and the man was plying her with wine. Adrian’s card had fallen ignobly to the floor from her lax fingers.

“I am grateful that you have finally received me, Duchess,” he said, announcing his presence. Actually, she had not agreed to receive him at all. He had threatened and bluffed his way past the butler.

Her lids slit and she peered down her body at him. She wore a garment that swaddled her from breasts to bare feet, but that left her neck and arms uncovered, revealing pale, glowing skin. In the low light he could not judge her face well, but her hair was a mass of dark curls tamed by a gold band circling her head.

The duchess gave Adrian a frank assessment and he returned one of his own. The only daughter of the last Duke of Everdon had attained instant importance with her father’s unexpected death. For the past two weeks everyone who was anyone in England had been speculating about Sophia Raughley, and wondering what she had been up to during her long absence from England.

Adrian did not relish reporting the answer to the men who had sent him here. From the looks of things, the new duchess had occupied herself these last eight years in Paris with becoming a shameless libertine.