The Seduction of Sara (5 page)

Of the many reactions Nick had engendered in women—fascination, attraction, admiration, excitement, fear—none had ever looked so obviously unimpressed. In fact, the little vixen had begun to look past him, her gaze assessing a man just to his right.

Nick's interest fanned to a roaring flame. The dreary confines of the ballroom brightened, warmed, and gleamed. “I don't even know your name.”

She hesitated the briefest instant. “Lady Carrington. My husband died not long ago.”

Ah. This is becoming more interesting by the moment.
“I'm sorry.”

“I'm not.”

She said the words simply, without rancor or emotion, but so surely that he knew her heart was free. This was no grieving widow, but a woman in search of passion.

Nick was a sensual man, and he would take great pleasure in sharing his bed with the fascinating Lady Carrington. But if they were to embark on a delightful flirtation, they would have to carefully mask their interest in one another whenever they were in public. For Nick, who had never had a truly clandestine relationship, the thought was unexpectedly provocative.

He looked down at the little charmer. He imagined her naked and in his bed, her skin flushed by passion, her hair unbound and flowing over her shoulders. He imagined her breasts, full and lush,
dewy from his kisses, the crests pink and thrusting. He pictured himself lowering himself between her damp thighs as he rode her until she cried out with passion. He saw himself bending over her, tasting her core, ecstasy nestled among her tight curls….

Her gaze widened and she took an unsteady step backward. “I-I have changed my mind about the terrace, my lord. You won't do at all.” She spun away, but her slippered foot tangled in her skirts and she tilted unsteadily.

Nick caught her just before she fell. He let his hands linger possessively on her arms, his temper sparked.
What does she mean, I won't “do”? The little chit needs to be taught the cost of playing with fire
. Especially the kind of fire that raged through him at this very moment, heating his blood, burning away his thin grasp on civility.

She jerked free and fled for the safety of her tall friend.

Swallowing the bitter taste of unfulfilled desire, Nick tried to still the blood that pounded through his body. Across the room, Lucilla attempted to gain his attention, her brows drawn in irritation, a petulant thrust to her lips. But Nick had no use for Lucilla at the moment. He remained rooted where he stood, watching the much-too-tempting Lady Carrington whispering to her friend, who stared at him with a mixture of horror and fascination.

He tried to ignore the relentless ache in his groin. How had he allowed something as simple as thickly lashed eyes and a dimpled cheek to get past his defenses?

Then Nick became aware of the avid gazes of two matrons who looked as if they'd like nothing better than to see him strung from the closest lamppost. Tonight of all nights, he did not need to make a spectacle of himself. One misstep, and he would find himself once again on the outside, looking in. He forced himself to remain in the ballroom, and allowed himself to be introduced to faceless woman after faceless woman. Word of his fortune soon spread and Bath society cracked open its door for the former prodigal son.

But all evening, Nick was much too aware of Lady Carrington as she flitted about the room, smiling at anyone who caught her eye. Grimly irritated, he watched her progression. The
ton
loved scandal almost as much as it loved money and gorged itself on whatever tidbits were available. If she didn't have a care, Lady Carrington would become the next main course—and if she became a social pariah, he would have to give her up. Society loved to declare guilt by association. Still…his gaze wandered toward her as she stood talking animatedly to her companion. She was a conundrum, a flash of fire, unexpected and unknown.

Perhaps Henri had been right—he needed a challenge. But not one that could destroy his chance to reenter society. The evening suddenly seemed flat. Taking one last look at Lady Carrington, Nick turned on his heel and left.

H
ibberton Hall had gone too long without a master. The roof leaked in a dozen places, fallen bricks blocked five of the twelve chimneys, and black mold splotched the once elegantly decorated walls in almost every room. All told, the rundown manor was a rotten board away from collapsing.

An ordinary man would have balked at the idea of attempting to return the manor to its former beauty. Fortunately for all concerned, the Earl of Bridgeton was not an ordinary man. Hibberton Hall belonged to Nick and he would see it restored, regardless of the cost, personal or otherwise.

The way Parkington had allowed the Hall to fall into such disrepair was revolting, Nick thought as
he stood in the center of the library. This room was in better condition than most of the others, though far from perfect. The floor needed staining, the heavy oak paneling had warped from the constant dampness that pervaded the house, and the fine plasterwork was threaded with tiny cracks. Nick stifled an impatient sigh and crossed to look out the window. “Pratt, we will need some men skilled in plaster work.”

“Yes, my lord,” his longtime solicitor said from where he sat at the desk, making a list of needed repairs. His fine, tiny writing already covered three entire sheets.

Nick lifted the latch and swung the window open, the hinges protesting loudly. Cold winter air invaded the room, dispelling the moldy odor and clearing his head. Despite almost a century of neglect, Hibberton Hall remained an impressive site. The main part of the house, built during Tudor times, contained a large banquet hall that had been converted to a ballroom almost a hundred years ago by one enterprising owner.

The rest of the Hall represented a succession of owners who built with little consideration to the style of the existing house. Strangely, the resulting architectural hodgepodge was both pleasing and intriguing.

“My lord?” Mr. Pratt's soft voice interrupted his thoughts. “I've prepared a list of materials needed for the repair of the east wing.”

Nick nodded, not bothering to examine the paper. His solicitor was more than thorough. “Give
it to Ledbetter. Make a note that we will need more men, too. I want as much of the repairs completed as possible before spring.”

“Yes, my lord. I will have him scour the countryside for skilled laborers.”

“We'll need a steady supply of lumber, as well. Perhaps we should ship some in from France.”

“I'll make inquiries.” The solicitor adjusted his spectacles, his gray eyes almost obscured by the thick lenses. “Mylord, how…how are you today?”

Jaw tense, Nick recognized the reference to his headaches. Ah, the joys of old family retainers—yet another aspect of settled life that he had not missed. He caught Pratt's concerned gaze and managed to say, “My headaches are less frequent here than in France.”

“Excellent, my lord. Perhaps they will fade away altogether.”

“Perhaps,” he said, more to end the conversation than because he agreed. He stirred restlessly and pushed aside the edge of the new window hangings, his fingers lingering on the velvet curtains. The lush, sensual feel sparked a sudden vision of Lady Carrington as she had appeared three nights before. Small and delicate, with thick black hair and creamy white skin, she would make a stunning mistress. Every diminutive inch of her was quality—exactly the type of woman to fit a setting like Hibberton Hall. Exactly the kind of woman who would fit Nick's new station in life. All he had to do was win her to his bed.

A brief knock heralded the entrance of the butler. Wiggs tottered into the room, a tray laden with sil
ver and delicate china resting in his gnarled hands. “Your tea, my lord.” The butler's voice cracked in the middle of the word “lord” making it sound like “lard.”

“Thank you.” Nick noted how the butler kept his gaze averted. Since his arrival, the resident servants had treated him as though they expected him to sprout horns and a tail, and it was beginning to get as annoying as hell. “Wiggs.”

The butler looked up from adjusting the china on the tray, his gaze uncertain. “Yes, my lord?”

“How long have you served Hibberton Hall?”

“Almost fifty years, my lord.”

Mr. Pratt lifted his head from his list making. “All of the servants have been here for quite some time, which is amazing considering that they haven't received a decent wage in years.”

Wiggs nodded, pride shining in his face. “We love the Hall, sir. It is a pleasure to serve it.”

Pratt dipped his pen into the inkwell and carefully adjusted a column. “Well, you need never again fear missing your wages.”

“Indeed not,” Nick said, who could not understand such misplaced loyalty. A house was just a house, and Hibberton Hall, for all its potential beauty, was nothing more than that. “Wiggs, I cannot help but notice that the staff seems uneasy.”

The butler's Adam's apple bobbed up and down in an alarming fashion. “Do they, my lord? I-I hadn't noticed.”

“Indeed they do. And it bothers me. So let me say this once, and you can carry it to the others. If
you, or anyone else employed at Hibberton Hall, find you cannot bear to see me in your master's place, then I shall have Pratt find you employment elsewhere.”

The butler paled. “My lord, with all due respect, the staff was glad to see the baron sent about his business.”

Nick frowned. “Then why the devil do all of you jump like rabbits every time I call for you?”

Mr. Pratt cleared his throat. “Ah, perhaps I can explain—”

“Mr. Pratt,” Nick said softly, not taking his gaze from the butler, “while I appreciate your desire to assist Wiggs, he appears quite capable of answering for himself.”

Wiggs straightened. “My lord, I apologize for any peculiarities you may have witnessed in the household staff, but you must realize that we've never had a gentleman in residence. In all my years as butler, Lord Parkington was here only once. I believe he stayed all of three minutes.” Visibly trembling, the butler clasped his gloved hands before him. “The staff and I are doing our best to accommodate you, and we only hope you won't turn us out.”

“Turn you out? I have no intention of doing any such thing.”

The butler let out his breath in a long wheeze of relief. “Thank you, my lord! You have no idea—”

“Provided,” Nick continued inexorably, “that you prove your worth. I cannot abide laziness.”

“My lord, you will have no cause to dismiss anyone.”

“I certainly hope not. Still, I must ask why is it that after almost a month in residence, only my bedchamber and the comte's are fit for habitation?”

“I have
frequently
spoken to Mrs. Kibble on that subject, but I'm afraid I was unable to convince her that the quiet countryside around Bath could hold the interest of such a, ahem, man of the world.”

Nick noted the pause but decided not to pursue it. “So the redoubtable Mrs. Kibble believes I might leave at any minute and not return?”

The butler looked pained. “The current odds are twenty to one that you won't see six more weeks.”

Nick certainly understood the appeal of a wager. “Wiggs, I wish to make a small wager myself.”

“My lord?”

“I wager ten guineas that the bedchambers in the east wing will not be cleaned and aired by the end of the week.”

“But sir…that's almost two entire floors!”

“Then I will be keeping my ten guineas,” Nick said gently.

After a startled moment, a reluctant smile creased the lines on the butler's elderly face. “I will notify the staff at once, my lord. We will complete the task; see if we don't.” Beaming, he left the room, a surprising spring to his ancient step.

As soon as the door closed, Mr. Pratt stood, his chair sliding silently over the thick rug. “Some of this is my fault, my lord. Before you returned, I fear that I mentioned to Wiggs that you might not need
the services of all the servants here. I wasn't certain what household staff you might be bringing from France.”

“I had no household servants in France, Mr. Pratt. In fact, I had no household.”

“I was unaware of that fact, my lord. Since you sent me a considerable sum each year for investing, I assumed you were living well.” A hint of concern deepened the solicitor's voice. “You…you did live well, didn't you, my lord?”

He shrugged. “I had the money from the sale of Bridgeton House.” And he sincerely hoped its drafty fireplaces were the bane of his damned cousin's life. Alec deserved no less.

Those three, long, lonely years on the continent, Nick had lived the life of a wanderer, even when well-heeled. Somehow he'd always known he would return to England, regardless of the promise he'd made Alec.

Mr. Pratt cleared his throat. “I hope you don't think I'm being forward, my lord, but when I heard you were returning to England, I feared the intervening years might have…”

“What?”

“I don't know. Humbled you in some way.”

Nick raised his brows. “And now?”

“You have not been humbled, my lord. I'm not sure why you felt it necessary to leave England, and your cousin, Viscount Hunterston, has never mentioned the events that led to your travels. But there were rumors…” The solicitor reddened, then gave an apologetic shrug.

“I was banished from England,” Nick said shortly. “Forced into a nomad's life due to my errors in dealing with my cousin.”

“Of course, my lord,” Pratt murmured, gathering his ledger. “Very understandable.” He paused, then said quietly, “Lady Hunterston is an exceptional woman.”

“She is also my cousin's wife; a fact I managed to forget.” Nick smiled coldly. “Don't look so crestfallen, Pratt. It was inevitable. Alec and I cannot be in the same room more than ten minutes without coming to blows.”

“I daresay some of that is due to the way your grandfather used to play the two of you against each other.”

“My grandfather believed Alec worthy. He was not so generous with me.”

“That was his error, my lord. It has been my pleasure to serve the Montrose family for nigh on thirty years, and regardless of what has happened between you and Lord Hunterston, I'm glad you have returned.”

“Are you? Alec inherited the fortune, not I.”

“Lord Hunterston does not hold the title. You do.” Behind his thick spectacles, the solicitor's eyes warmed. “I can never forget that. In fact, I didn't even notify Lord Hunterston that you had returned. I thought it would be best if you saw him once you were more settled.”

Nick flashed a humorless smile. “And could show him my new magnificence?”

Pratt met Nick's gaze steadily. “And show him
how you've changed. You have, sir. And we both know why.”

Because the headaches had finally come to him, just as they had come to his mother. It was only a matter of time before his true weakness was exposed, until he sank into the same blackness that had claimed her, the search for relief that had led her down more and more depraved paths.

The bleak hole that festered in Nick's soul ached anew. He managed a shrug and turned away. “You mistake the matter, Pratt. I am the same as always, only wealthier. And you may tell my bloody cousin that, with my compliments.”

A long silence filled the room, then Pratt sighed and Nick could hear the solicitor gathering his papers. “I see His Lordship but little. Viscountess Hunterston keeps him well occupied.” The solicitor hesitated, then added, “Lady Hunterston has recently retired to the country.”

“At this time of the year? Is she ill, or—?” Nick broke off, comprehension dawning. “Ah, she is having another of Hunterston's brats. What does that make? Ten? Twenty?” Sourness rose in his belly, hot and heavy. It wasn't disappointment, for he'd come to realize that what he'd felt for Julia had been nothing more than hope—hope that she could, somehow and some way, save him from himself. It had been a vain and foolish dream, all tangled up with his desire for what he couldn't have.

Mr. Pratt adjusted his glasses. “I believe it is only their second child, my lord, although they have adopted several others.”

“How perfectly dreadful.” Nick clasped his hands behind his back and stared out at the lawn. “At your meeting with Ledbetter, tell him to set a date for completion. I want the repairs to the Hall finished as quickly as possible.”

Pratt bowed, then crossed to the door. “Yes, my lord. Is there anything else you require?”

“No. Just…Pratt?”

The solicitor turned around, his pale eyes curious. “Yes, my lord?”

“Thank you for protecting my interests while I was away.”

A pleased smile touched the solicitor's face as he bowed again. “It is a pleasure to be of service.” The door closed quietly and Nick was left alone at the window.

On the brown lawn, the winter wind chased a small swirl of leaves down the gentle slope to the pond. As barren and wasted as it appeared, it was his, and he took satisfaction in the notion.

A soft knock sounded at the door, and the comte entered. He was dressed for riding, his deep blue coat making his white hair seem brighter, a jaunty lift to his step.

“Where have you been?” Nick asked. Since the Jeffries ball three days ago, Henri had been in hot pursuit of a widow. Though Nick had not asked, he was certain the woman was blessed with both a fortune and a title, for the comte did nothing that did not progress him further into society.

Henri crossed to the crackling fire. “I have been riding with the lovely Delphi. Ah, Nicholas, you
should see her! She is—” The comte kissed his fingers to the sky and dropped into a chair, his legs stretched before him, a smile on his face.

Nick turned to sit at the desk. “So you have been telling me for three days. I'm amazed I didn't notice this paragon when we attended the Jeffries ball.”

“Ah, that is because she has no brilliance of expression. No forward, playful manner. No blinding beauty. None of the things you prize in a woman.” The comte held his hands toward the flames. “She is quality. Very pretty, and quite charming. A shy butterfly who wants to fly like a bird. And I am willing to teach her all she needs to know.”