The Seduction of Sara (17 page)

 

Keltenton flipped open the curtain that covered the alcove and gave Sara a leering stare. “After you, my dear.”

Sara glanced down the deserted hallway, wondering where Nick was. Gathering her courage, she managed an uncertain smile and slipped behind the curtain.

The alcove was remarkably spacious, larger than most sitting rooms. Used as a private reception room, it was luxuriously decorated in lush red. A small settee rested in the center of the room, piled high with cushions.

Sara smoothed her hands over the skirt of her gown, letting the pale blue satin slide beneath her fingertips. The gown was heavy, the bottom banded with yellow-satin roses. A wide flow of lace formed the collar and decorated the matching gloves. Expertly cut, the neckline was designed to draw attention, while the flow of the skirt emphasized the curve of her hips.

Lord Keltenton pulled the curtain closed, then walked toward her, his gaze devouring her from head to foot. To Sara's chagrin, she discovered that he smelled of musty linen and licorice.

She turned away. “My, this is certainly a lovely chamber.”

“Not as lovely as you,” Lord Keltenton replied, his voice cracking with age. He watched her with an unholy gleam in his eyes that made her back up warily.

“I'm surprised you know about this room.”

“I come to the theatre quite often.” He picked up a cushion from the settee and plumped it suggestively. “I like soft things. Soft, young things.”

Oh, dear. Sara tightened her grip on her reticule.

Lord Keltenton advanced toward her, and she caught a glimpse of his patently false teeth where his wrinkled lips stretched in a leering smile. The thought of facing such a man over the breakfast table made her stomach heave.

For some reason Nick's steely hard gaze slipped into her mind, and Sara knew she could not continue with her plan. She turned toward the doorway, but Lord Keltenton, apparently energized by his unexpected luck, had imposed himself between her and the door, his hands outspread as if he meant to grapple her to the ground.

“I'll have you to bed, my pretty.” He leered. “Such a tasty morsel.”

Sara stared at him in amazement. With an un-graceful leap, she skittered around the couch, snatching up a pillow on her way.

Delight dawned in the aging roué's eyes. “Oh, so you want to play games, do you? I
like
games.”

Sara held the pillow before her like a shield. “Don't come any closer!”

He cackled and rubbed his hands together. “That's right! You be the terrified virgin, and I'll be the ravager!” He took another step closer, then stopped. His eyes widened and he looked down at his breeches in amazement.

Sara followed his gaze. There, faintly evident against the loose cut of his breeches, was the outline of a tiny erection.

“By Gad, that's famous!” he exclaimed. His eyes gleamed with new determination. “Hold on, my sweet! Old Harold has a little present for you.”

Sara lobbed the pillow with all her might and it hit him square in the chest. Without waiting to see the outcome, she gathered her skirt in one hand and leapt over the back of the couch, landing neatly on her feet. “Nick!” she called, glancing toward the door expectantly.

But Nick didn't appear. Instead, Lord Keltenton rounded the edge of the settee. Somehow he'd managed to undo the buttons on his breeches and they now sagged about his narrow hips, his drawers plainly visible, a tiny telltale bump at his crotch.

Dear God, help me now
. Sara darted past the settee and around a small table, grabbing a heavy metal statuette as she went.

Lord Keltenton scuttled after her, dancing sideways like a crab. “Hee, hee! Such a lively one!”

Sara turned and cocked the statue in a throwing
stance. “Don't make me use this, Lord Keltenton. I don't wish to hurt you.”

He grinned yellowly. “Perhaps I like being hurt. Especially by young ladies with pretty bosoms like yours.” He brightened. “I say, would you like to beat me with a riding crop?”

The idea actually had some appeal. “Lord Keltenton, you seem to have made a mistake, as have I. I thought I could do this, but I can't. I just can't.”

Her desperation must have reached him, for he stopped in his tracks, his face softening. “Having doubts, are you? Well, never let it be said that old Harold took an unwilling girl to bed.”

Sara sagged with relief. “Thank you so much. I thought—”

He lunged for her, cackling wildly. “Tricked you, my pretty!”

Cursing madly, Sara dropped the statue and ran for the door. Lord Keltenton stumbled over the statue and fell heavily, his hands grabbing the bottom of her skirt.

His full weight yanked her to a halt and she stood, straining forward with all her might.

No sound came from behind her. Not a single sigh or pant. The suspense was agonizing. “Lord Keltenton?”

Nothing. Sara turned. He lay on the floor, his pants about his thighs, his fingers gripping the bottom of her skirt. His eyes were wide-open, his tongue hanging from his mouth.

Damn it, must every man she tried to seduce drop into an unconscious stupor? She pulled on her
skirt, but nothing happened. Lord Keltenton's fingers remained clenched on her hem as if he were hanging on to her for dear life.

Sara frowned. “Lord Keltenton, release my skirt!”

He didn't answer. He didn't move. In fact, he didn't even blink.

Sara bent closer. The old man's eyes stared in an eerie, unseeing fashion. “Lord Keltenton?” she said louder, her voice shrill in the silence.

She poked at one of his hands with the tip of her slipper, and the truth slipped slowly into her mind. “Oh, fudge,” she breathed as panic filled her chest. “I've killed him.”

The curtain was suddenly shoved aside and Nick appeared. Tall, broad-shouldered, his hair gleaming in the intimate lamplight, he looked like a knight from a picture book.

He took two swift steps into the room, his gaze dropping to the floor. He froze. “My God, what's happened now?”

Sara couldn't speak. She could only point.

Nick cursed, then crossed to where Lord Keltenton lay. “Bloody hell! Three in a row? I begin to fear for my own life.”

“I didn't do anything! He was chasing me and he fell.”

Nick stooped to look at Lord Keltenton, who lay on his side, his chest moving slowly. “He's not dead.”

“Thank God,” Sara said with relief.

Nick's gaze went lower and then stopped. “Good God, he's…” He glanced up at Sara. Her blue eyes
were wide, her hair tumbled about her face. She looked young and innocent and altogether too enticing. Nick felt the beginning of a smile. “Congratulations, my dear. You have the ability to raise the dead.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Lord Keltenton is aroused. According to his valet, he has not been able to perform such a feat in over ten years.” Nick stood, brushing his knees.

“When did you speak with his valet?” Sara asked in confusion.

“Last week. I wanted to ascertain that the rumors were true.”

Her face cleared and the slightest hint of a smile appeared on her face. “That's why you said he was a perfect candidate.”

Nick nodded shortly. “It appears he's had a fit of some sort, but he's still breathing, and his color is returning. I need to—”

The curtain was thrust aside and the Earl of Greyley burst into the room. His steely gaze found first Sara and then Nick. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Damn,” Sara muttered, tugging on her skirts.

Damn, indeed
. Nick had sincerely hoped they would be spared her brother's presence until after this little incident was settled. He knelt and pried one of Keltenton's hands from Sara's hem. “Lord Keltenton has had an accident.”

Greyley came to stare at the fallen lord, his face grim, white lines about his mouth. “Is he dead?”

“I thought he was,” Sara said helpfully.

He shot her a hard glance. “Why is his hand clenched about your skirts?”

Nick loosened the other hand. “Lord Keltenton had an attack and your sister kindly tried to assist him. I'm afraid he grabbed her skirts as he fell.”

The earl glowered, his eyes dark with suspicion. “His trousers are loosened.”

Before Anthony could say anything else, Nick said, “Assist me in getting him to the settee, Greyley. We can discuss this later.”

After a tense moment, he nodded. The two men quickly lifted Lord Keltenton to the settee and dropped him rather roughly on the cushions, then yanked his breeches back into place.

Nick stood looking down at the man. “I suppose one of us should seek some help.”

The earl nodded grimly, but made no move to leave.

Nick showed his teeth. “Or perhaps he will recover on his own.”

Anthony returned the false smile. “One can only hope.”

“Oh, for heavens sake! I'll go!” Sara sent them both a black glare, then marched to the curtain. She flipped the heavy velvet back and disappeared into the corridor beyond.

Greyley closed the space that separated him from Nick. “I know you are somehow to blame for this, Bridgeton. Sara has already been hurt once; I will not have her hurt again.”

“She is a grown woman. She can make her own decisions.”

“Not with you around, she can't. I know too much about you. So you will stay away from my sister.”

Had he any sense, Nick would have agreed and gone his own way. But having this lumbering ox of a man try to tell Nick what he could and could not do infuriated him. He met Greyley's gaze head-on. “You do not dictate to either me or Sara.”

The earl's mouth thinned. “Damn you, Bridgeton. I will see to it that you are never welcome in Bath again.”

Nick was risking everything with his stubbornness, but for some reason, the idea of resuming his place in society paled when compared to the thought of having Sara in his bed. Nick gave him a faint smile. “We shall see, won't we, Greyley?”

The curtain was shoved open again.

“
Voyons!
What has happened?” Henri entered the room, followed by Sara's aunt and several other people. “Has there been an accident?”

“Not yet,” Anthony muttered. “But soon.”

Sara's aunt bustled to the settee. “Oh, dear! It's Lord Keltenton!”

A plump lady in lavender satin shook her head, her improbably yellow curls bouncing with the movement. “Given to fits, he is. Best loosen his neckcloth.”

This service performed, a somber gentleman was sent to fetch a doctor. More people entered the room, and Nick gladly stepped aside, the whole scene adding to his irritation.

His plan had gone disastrously awry. He'd sub
jected Sara to the advances of a man he'd thought incapable of such, and put his relationship with her in full view of her brother.

“Perhaps we should pour water on him,” Henri said over the din.

His suggestion was met with a welter of approval, and two women were sent to request some water.

Sara stood to one side, her hands nervously clasped in front of her.

Nick watched her, his heart tight at the sight of her distress.

“Bridgeton, this is all your fault.”

Nick sighed. “You are beginning to repeat yourself, Greyley. I find it boring.”

“That does it.” Anthony's face darkened, his mouth white with anger. “I have had enough of you. Name your second.”

“No.”

“
Name your second
.” Anthony's voice rang over the confusion, bringing instant silence.

Sara took a half step forward, then stopped, alarm darkening her eyes.

Nick turned to Anthony. “I will not fight you. There is no cause for a duel.”

“Afraid to die, Bridgeton? I promise I'll make it quick.”

Damn the arrogant bastard. “Henri?”

“
Mon Dieu!
Not again.” He looked at Sara's aunt and said, “We go, he fights, he kills, we eat breakfast…it is always the same.”

“Not this time,” Anthony said grimly. “Tomor
row, the only place Bridgeton will eat breakfast will be in hell.” He glanced around the room, his gaze indifferent. “I need a second as well.”

Over by the curtain, Viscount Hewlette said boldly, “I would be glad to be of service to you, my lord.” He leveled a malicious glance at Nick.

Anthony nodded. “Very well. Hewlette is my second.”

Sara took another step forward but Greyley caught her arm. “Wait!” she said, trying to free herself. “This is not necessary. Please, Anthony, don't do—”

“Pistols at dawn?” Nick cut in.

Greyley nodded abruptly, then stalked out, dragging a protesting Sara with him.

M
uch later that night, Nick sat in the library at Hibberton Hall, his feet stretched toward the fireplace as he watched the flicking light from the embers dance across his boots. The corners of the room were clothed in darkness; only the dying fire and one solitary lamp spilled a faint golden glow across the patterned rug.

He was a fool. He'd come to England to reestablish himself, and what did he do but allow his contretemps with a lady of quality to become public fodder. Nick shook his head in disgust. Somewhere along the way, he'd lost what little sense he'd once had for a pair of wide blue eyes.

Not that his interest in Sara had dimmed. On the contrary, he was more eager to have her than ever,
now that she'd cost him so much trouble. Nick leaned his head back against the high back of his chair and watched the dying embers struggle for life.

Julius Lawrence had been a fool. To have had access to the bed of such a tender, succulent woman like Sara, yet leave her virtually unawakened, was a blatant sin. Every instinct Nick possessed rebelled at such waste.

He reached for the flagon of brandy on the table at his elbow, and splashed some into a glass. That was the problem with Englishmen: They didn't understand the intrinsic beauty of being the one to awaken a woman, to pleasure her until she cried your name and became part of your soul for a fleeting moment.

Nick absently swirled the liquid in his glass and blessed his French ancestors. Such knowledge was power, and it made the act of making love all the more poignant.

The mantel clock chimed the hour: It was midnight, the witching hour. A prudent man would want to be alert and ready for the duel at dawn, and go to bed. Nick poured more brandy into his glass and toasted the ticking clock. He didn't want to be careful. He just wanted to enjoy the moment, to savor the pleasures left to him until Sara's ox of a brother ended his life on the dueling field.

The thought made him stir restlessly, and he rose to stand by the open terrace window, letting the cool breeze brush across him. He never thought about the possible outcome of a duel. Always before, he'd
been defending his honor or the honor of his mother's memory. But for some reason, tomorrow's duel was different. For once, he had no desire to win. Greyley had been right to challenge him; he deserved much worse for placing Sara in harm's way.

He imagined her face if he happened to kill her brother. She'd never forgive anyone who harmed so much as a hair on his head, no matter how much the lummox deserved it. Nick sighed. He shouldn't care, but he'd decided Sara was to be his mistress—so it bothered him to see his hopes blow away like chaff in the wind. Of course, he couldn't very well let Sara's brawny oaf of a brother just shoot him in cold blood, either. Damn it, he'd never lost a duel.

He rubbed his forehead wearily. Either way, he was damned. “What the hell does she expect me to do?” he asked aloud. Worst of all, it had been years since he'd let desire interfere with his life—but then, he'd never had to work so long or hard to woo a woman into his bed.

His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. It was a sad truth that while he'd inherited his mother's tendency toward wildness and her damnable headaches, he'd also inherited his father's weakness for a beautiful face. There was no good blood in his veins. Not a single drop.

Nick took a sip of the brandy, warming it on his tongue, savoring the heavy, mellow taste. What was it about Sara that tantalized him so? Her face wasn't as breathtakingly beautiful as some of the women he'd been with. Perhaps it was her exuberance for
life, her determination to win no matter the cost. He'd never met a woman more determined to make her own way in the world, circumstances be damned. She approached every second as if it were an adventure, her heart wide-open, her emotions on display to the world.

Nick marveled at Sara's capacity to make even the most mundane activities or conversations quiver with meaning and emotion. He looked into his glass, and a smile turned up the corners of his mouth. God knew she never left him bored. Perhaps that was the reason he could not let her go.

But no, it was more than that. It was her intelligence, coupled with the hint of naïveté. He was fascinated to think he might be able to touch that innocence and make it his. Yet every time he got near her, that same innocence made him pause. He'd had ample opportunities to seduce her; why had he stopped each time?

Was it chivalry, or his desire to regain his respectability? He shook his head and looked at the half-empty glass in his hand. What a damnable tangle.

Part of Nick welcomed the duel, welcomed it with a hot yearning that was almost frightening. Perhaps this was the way to end it—to just let the bullet take him.

He closed his eyes. No more pain, no more nights wondering if he would make it until morning. Nothing but blessed emptiness.

But the thought didn't bring the relief he thought it would. It was ignoble to just give up. He was not
his mother, too weak to fight the demons. His pride forbade him from taking such an expedient route. His hand tightened about the glass. Whatever the outcome, he would welcome it.

The door opened. “My lord,” Wiggs said, his voice thick with disapproval.

Nick turned from the window. “Yes?”

“A young lady has come to call.” Wiggs's mouth was pressed in a stern line. “She gave her name as Lady Carrington. Shall I tell her you are not available?”

So she has come to plea for her brother's life, has she?
“Give me a moment, then show her in.”

“Yes, my lord. Shall I request Mrs. Kibble to attend you, to serve as chaperone while—”

“No, thank you, Wiggs.” Nick wanted complete privacy. “Let Lady Carrington wait for at least ten minutes before you allow her in.” That would give her time to worry a bit.

After a pause, Wiggs replied, “Very good, sir.” He bowed and left, moving even more slowly than usual.

Nick smiled at the closed door. The thought of Sara kicking her heels in his foyer, waiting impatiently to see him, was very pleasant indeed. He finished off the remaining brandy, his mind humming ever so slightly. The room had a slightly skewed look to it, as if he were in a long, narrow hallway.

He glanced down at his shirt, smoothing it with one hand. It was still tucked in, his cravat still knotted about his throat, though he'd shed his coat and
waistcoat hours ago. He thought briefly of replacing them, then discarded the idea. Sara had invaded his territory—let her find him in all his glory. He undid his cravat and tossed it over a chair, and loosened the neck of his shirt. Grinning, he dropped into a chair, stretched his legs before him, and waited.

Several minutes passed before the door opened again. “Lady Carrington,” Wiggs intoned, sounding like a death knell.

Nick noted that she hadn't shed her pelisse; it was still tightly buttoned about her neck in a definite “keep the rake at bay” manner. He couldn't decide whether he was amused or annoyed.

She hesitated on the threshold, her gaze widening when she saw his attire, then she curtsied abruptly. “Lord Bridgeton.”

Nick smiled, but made no move to rise. “Lady Carrington. What an unexpected pleasure.” He glanced toward his silent butler. “That will be all, Wiggs.”

The butler sniffed. “Yes, my lord. If you require anything else, you have but to ring.”

“Thank you,” Nick said with finality.

With a morose nod, Wiggs shuffled out of the room and closed the door behind him.

Nick turned his gaze to Sara. She stood rooted in the middle of the room, her hands tightly clasped in front of her, her feet slightly apart as if she was prepared for battle.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” he said, with a slight sneer.

“You know why I have come.”

For some reason, that quiet admission irritated him. “Does your brother know you are here?”

She shook her head. “He thinks I am in bed, asleep.”

“Your brother is a fool.” Nick waved a hand at the seat opposite his. “You might as well sit.”

The chairs were grouped around the terrace windows, which he had opened to let in a bit of fresh air. A faint breeze stirred the curtains ever so slightly, washing the heat of the fire from the corners of the room.

After a slight hesitation, she nodded. “Thank you.” She took the chair opposite him and perched on the edge.

“Why don't you take off your pelisse? It is quite warm.” Using his groin as a gauge, it was more than warm. It was hot, and she was still draped head to toe in yards of material.

Her hands almost reached for the top button, but then she stopped and shot him an uncertain look, her gaze resting on his empty glass. “I'm not sure I should.”

He rose and went to the fire, stirring it to new life. “I rarely ravish my guests. In fact, it is usually the other way around.”

“I will try to restrain myself,” she said in a dry tone as she unbuttoned her pelisse and pulled it off, defiantly tossing it on the chair opposite hers.

“I'm sure you will,” he murmured.

She still wore the gown she'd worn at the theatre, the ice-blue silk outlining her curves, the color brilliant against her skin. “So, Sara,” he said, lin
gering over her name, drawing it through his teeth to taste it thoroughly. “Would you like a drink? Sherry, perhaps?”

“No, thank you. I came to speak with you about the duel.”

He walked toward the desk. “You'll have a drink first.” He pushed aside the carafe of sherry and poured brandy into a glass, then handed it to her. “This will soften that frown of yours.”

When she took the glass, he could see how her fingers shook. Nick watched her take a sip and grimace at the strong taste. It was unmannerly of him to offer her such strong spirits, but for some reason he wanted to push her, to taunt her, to torment her as he was tormented.

Frowning at the thought, he went to the terrace door and leaned against it, letting the cold glass dissipate some of the brandy fumes from his mind. “So, love, what brings you? Are you one of those morbid curiosity seekers who crane their lovely necks for a last glimpse of the dying?”

“Nick, please.”

“You heard your brother—according to him, I haven't a chance. I will be a dead man on the morrow.”

“That's why I've come.” She swallowed convulsively. “I heard you're quite good at dueling.”

“I've never lost.”

She leaned forward, her eyes glistening with tears. “Nick…please, Anthony may be pigheaded, but he's my brother.”

The soft voice sent a solid thrum of sexual excite
ment through him. It wasn't fair that he should meet this tender flower just as he was on the verge of death. It was the ultimate irony, and Nick did not find it in the least amusing. “What do you want, Sara?”

“Stop the duel. Please.”

He reached out for the curtain tassel and threaded it through his hands. “I can't.”

“There must be a way.” She licked her dry lips, the innocent gesture sending a flood of awareness straight to his groin.

Good God, she was the most unassumingly sensual woman he'd ever known and he was burning to taste her. “You are asking me to do something that is quite out of my power. Your brother challenged me, not the other way around. If this duel is to be stopped, he has to be the one to do so.”

“I've already asked him,” she said despondently, staring into her glass.

“He doesn't take his honor lightly.”

“Neither do you.”

He smiled without humor. “I have no honor. Which is why I have allowed you to join me here, in my house, alone. And why I placed you at such risk with Lord Keltenton in the first place.”

Her brow creased. “You have honor.”

“No. I have pride, which is a vastly different thing.” He could tell she was going to disagree. “Sara, you know nothing about me. I've done things that—” He stared at the tassel dangling from his fingers. “You don't know me at all.”

Sara bit her lip, her fingers curling into her palm
so tightly that her nails cut the skin. Nick was different this evening. Intense, quiet. And lonely, somehow. Perhaps it was the strain of the duel.

She'd never seen him without his usual polished veneer. He'd shed his jacket and waistcoat and his shirt was open at the neck to reveal his strong throat. His eyes had a bright, hard quality to them, the result of the brandy, no doubt. But it was more than that: It was the way he watched her, his expression intent as if he were trying to memorize her every feature. “Nick, what do you want?”

“What?”

She ran a finger over the edge of her brandy glass. “What is the one thing you yearn for above all?”

“Freedom.”

“From what?”

He didn't answer for a long while, but stood staring out the window. Finally, he sighed. “From pain. I have hurt for so long…”

“Are you injured? Or ill?”

“I have headaches. It's an inherited tendency. My mother—”

“Mother? I thought it was your father who suffered from headaches.”

“No. Where did you get that idea?”

“Lady Birlington. She knows everything about everybody.”

“What else did she say?”

“Nothing; that was all.”

His face shuttered. “She told you that I would end up the same way as my mother, didn't she?”

After a moment, Sara nodded.

Nick's jaw tensed, and he looked back out the window.

What could she say now, how could she bridge the gulf that seemed to be growing between them as the silence stretched? But no stroke of brilliance came to her. Unable to bear the silence, she had just convinced herself to leave when he began to speak.

“My mother's name was Violette.” Low and intense, his voice was filled with pain.

“That…that is a lovely name.”

“She was a lovely woman. Quite beautiful, in fact. She was the only daughter of a French aristocrat, and she was a woman of extreme passions. When she was happy, you could not ask for a more exciting companion. But when she was sad…” His face darkened. “For her, love was a temporary state. And since she was as selfish as she was beautiful, she floated from man to man, on a never-ending search for something she couldn't have.”