Seduction Regency Style

by Louisa Cornell

  Piercing blue eyes met hers. Her heart pounded as it had upon seeing him earlier. What thick, dark brows he had. They lent his elegant, handsome face a fierceness that made her breath quicken. But it wasn’t simply the dark brows that saved him from appearing too boyish, too pretty. His eyes bore a worldly shrewdness. What could have caused that look in such a young man?

  Leslie lowered her eyelids a fraction. Those eyes were too intense…too knowing. She cast a furtive glance at his well-cut, dark blue suit. Not an inch of softness in that tall, powerfully muscled body. His carriage was that of a warrior, confident and comfortable in his masculine power. Had he learned that deportment in military service?

  “Who is he?” she whispered to Alice.

  “Everyone knows Sir Stirling.”

  Leslie scowled. “You know full well I’m not speaking of Sir Stirling.”

  “Ah,” Alice intoned, all innocence, but Leslie knew her friend too well to be fooled. “That is Evan MacLaren,” Alice said.

  Leslie stopped herself just in time from yanking her gaze onto the man. “Not that young privateer who captured the Zeus three months ago?”

  “One and the same,” Alice replied.

  “That was an eighty-gun ship,” Leslie said.

  “I heard he lost not a single man on his ship,” Alice said.

  Leslie gave a slow nod. “Perhaps not. But the French have a bounty on his head. He’s caused them no end of annoyance.”

  “I think he’s about to cause you no end of annoyance.” Alice broke off and Leslie looked up as the two men halted before them.

  “Ladies.” Sir Stirling bowed. “May I introduce Mr. Evan MacLaren. Evan, this is Lady Hilton.”

  Mr. MacLaren grasped the hand Alice extended toward him and bowed. “My lady.”

  Alice’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. MacLaren.”

  Sir Stirling turned to Leslie and smiled. Leslie kept a neutral expression. The man was a charmer. It was a shame he was married. She felt certain he would be a great deal of fun.

  “Lady Carr, may I introduce Mr. Evan MacLaren.” Sir Stirling sidestepped.

  Mr. MacLaren turned to Leslie. She extended her hand. He grasped her gloved fingers. His warmth penetrated the fabric and a frisson of awareness raced up her arm. Those intense eyes locked with hers as he lifted her hand and pressed his mouth against her fingers. An all-too-familiar tingle radiated through her stomach. This young man was another charmer, and probably quite dangerous. But it would take a dangerous man to be a sailor these days—particularly a British privateer in Napoleon’s war.

  Desire to learn more about Evan MacLaren flared to life. Leslie started. Such a compelling need was dangerous, for this younger son of a viscount was not wealthy. A handsome youth with no title and no money—the Zeus was a war ship filled with soldiers, not treasure, which meant Mr. MacLaren received a paltry sum from His Majesty in thanks for risking his life. He had no prospects besides improving his lot through marriage.

  He released her hand and she was startled to realized she missed his warmth. Nae. She didn’t need complications. She enjoyed affairs with peers. Gentlemen who enjoyed their freedom as much as they enjoyed pleasure and luxury. The memory of a Season spent fending off ardent, false avowals of love, and promises of matrimonial bliss, made her tired. Even as a virgin, she hadn’t relished hurting a man. She would say her goodnights, go straight to her bedchambers and, in the morning, she would leave this party.

  Those blue eyes still stared.

  She opened her mouth to make her excuses.

  “A waltz.” Sir Stirling’s remark caught her off guard.

  “Might I have this dance?” asked Mr. MacLaren.

  Leslie started to say nae, you may not have this dance, and you know perfectly well why, but Alice cut in, and said, “The waltz is your favorite of all dances, Leslie. You need a partner worthy of you. Give this young man a whirl.” She grinned.

  Leslie angled her head in Mr. MacLaren's direction. “Do you dance the waltz, Mr. MacLaren?”

  He lifted a brow. “Quite well, ma'am.”

  “There you have it,” Alice said. “Sir Stirling can sit and chat with me while you two dance.” She looked up at Sir Stirling expectantly.

  He gave a slight bow. “I would be honored, my lady.”

  Mr. MacLaren extended his hand toward her. She placed her hand in his and he held her steady as she rose. The pressure of his fingers on hers in the instant before he released her made her wonder what it would be like to have those fingers grasping the back of her neck as he pulled her in for a kiss. She repressed a shiver.

  “Is anything wrong, my lady?” he asked.

  Leslie shook her head. “Not a thing.”

  He stared for a moment, and she thought she detected amusement in his eyes, but couldn't be sure. He was a cool character. He extended his hand and she placed hers atop the back of his hand. He led her toward the dance floor. By the time they reached the dancers, the waltz was in full swing. He surprised her by whirling her around to face him and stepping in between two couples, then twirling her so hard that her dress flared. The press of his leg against her inner thigh caused her mouth to go dry. Pure muscle. He dodged a couple while turning her in another tight circle.

  She couldn't prevent a laugh. “I see you are, indeed, an excellent dancer.”

  “My mother insisted upon lessons from the time I was ten.”

  “Ten? You jest.”

  His mouth ticked up with the hint of a rueful smile. “On my honor, I speak the truth. My mother believes that the making of a gentleman takes a lifetime of learning.”

  “What say you, Mr. MacLaren? Was your mother right?”

  He sidestepped a couple who came perilously close to them, then turned in time to the music, skirting the edge of the dance floor. “My mother is alive and well. I would never think to gainsay her. Mothers have a way of knowing such things even when very far away from their children.”

  Leslie laughed again, as much for the straight-faced way in which he delivered this information, as the fact that she thought he actually believed it. “Your mother sounds like an interesting woman.”

  His expression softened. “She is.”

  He spoke the words with more fondness than was fashionable. That surprised her. This young man, so controlled, had a soft spot for his mama.

  “What of you, my lady?” he asked. “What do you believe makes a man a gentleman?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Not being impertinent with a lady.”

  “I have a feeling that impertinence is something you know a great deal of.”

  She lifted a brow. “That is something a gentleman would never point out.”

  The rueful smile returned. “I imagine my mother is right then. Becoming a gentleman takes a lifetime of work. I beg you, do not tell her that I have failed so miserably.”

  The man had a flare for drama. What an interesting contradiction.

  Leslie met the gaze of Lady Handley as her partner whirled her past. Married eight years, Lady Handley was a woman dissatisfied with her situation. The disapproving look she affected was undone by the jealousy reflected in her eyes.

  “I don't think Lady Handley cares for you,” Mr. MacLaren said.

  “A gentleman wouldn't point that out, either,” she said.

  “Perhaps you ought to give me lessons on how to be a gentleman. No doubt, my poor mother would be grateful for the help.”

  Leslie tilted her head so that she was forced to look at him through her lashes. “I am not such a fool as to believe that is the lesson she would have me teach you, young sir.”

  He lifted a dark brow. “Are you implying that I need lessons in making love to a woman?”

  She misstepped. His arm tightened around her waist and he yanked her close, keeping time with the music. Her heart thundered.

  His gaze darkened. “I see the idea has its appeal.”

  “You are rather abominable, you know.” She curse
d the breathless note in her voice. She was no green girl. What was wrong with her?

  “My—”

  “Let me guess,” Leslie cut in. “Your mother has told you this often.”

  Genuine amusement lit his eyes this time. “She has, in fact.”

  The music crescendoed and she realized the dance would soon end. Disappointment stabbed.

  She regarded him. “I imagine she has also told you that you are trouble.”

  His brows shot up. “She has warned me that I will find myself in trouble.”

  Leslie gave a slow nod. “Then I imagine she was sparing her feelings, for you are trouble.”

  His gaze bore into her. “I understand you, too, have a penchant for trouble.”

  Chapter Three

  Lady Carr laughed, full, throaty and with genuine amusement. Evan detected no artifice in her response and the erection he’d been battling since he pulled her into his arms yanked harder on his control. What would her unaffected response be to his thrusting inside her? A mental picture flashed of her astride his hips, head thrown back, hair hanging loose about her shoulders as she rode his cock into orgasmic oblivion. His cock further hardened. He grimaced inwardly. His mother was right again. He was about to find himself in trouble.

  Evan’s mind jumped to attention when he caught the flick of her eyes to the left, and the startlement that flashed across her face. He turned her in a tight circle and glanced in the direction she’d looked. The Earl of Barnton openly stared, his eyes following their progress across the dancefloor. What was this all about? A spurned lover, perhaps?

  Evan dodged a couple, narrowly missing a collision. Lady Carr’s grip on his shoulder tightened and the tendrils of hair that framed her face fluttered. The waltz was nearing its end. Fortunately, he didn’t have to devise a way to see her again—and he did want to see her again—for the house party would last at least a week. The waltz ended, and Evan brought them to a halt. She looked up at him when he didn’t immediately release her.

  “Trouble,” she murmured.

  He released her waist, caught her hand, and placed it in the crook of his arm. “Is it too scandalous for me to escort you to the refreshments room?”

  She laughed. “I doubt anyone will notice if a gentleman escorts a mature widow anywhere.”

  “A mature widow, you say?” He navigated them around a group of men.

  She looked up at him. “Half the women here are debutants and girls in their second Season. Compared to them, I am ancient.”

  “They are children,” he replied.

  “Really?” she said. “They are the perfect age for a young man like you to choose from.”

  He grimaced, and she laughed. “Most men—many much older than you—prefer young women.”

  “Many of those men are chasing their own youth.”

  Evan caught the narrow-eyed looks three women sitting against the wall cast their way as they passed. He knew that look all too well: jealousy. He wasn’t arrogant enough to think them jealous because Lady Carr was on his arm. Nae. Theirs was a jealousy borne of a bone-deep dislike of the lady.

  “Lady Carr.” Baroness Trent hurried toward them.

  Evan caught the smile that Lady Carr hid. He didn’t have to ask about the source of her amusement. Baroness Trent adored French fashion, particularly French fashion that allowed her to show off her full curves; most importantly, her impressive cleavage. Her décolletage dipped so low, her areolas peeked over the edge of the fabric. But as a bona fide mature widow of forty-seven years of age, she was the paradigm of how to live one’s life without concern for what Society thought.

  She reached them. “Leslie, you look wonderful.” The baroness pulled her into a hug, then drew back. “How are you, Mr. MacLaren?” She extended a gloved hand.

  He grasped her fingers and bowed. “You look ravishing, as always, Baroness.”

  “The dress makes the woman, they say.” She leaned close and said in a mock whisper, “I say, the dress should be made for the woman.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Evan said. “We were on our way to the refreshments room. Would you like to join us, or should I fetch you ladies something to drink?”

  “If Lady Carr is agreeable, I will walk with you,” she replied.

  “We would be glad for your company,” Lady Carr said.

  Evan winged both arms and they each accepted, then started forward.

  “I am so pleased you are here with us, Mr. MacLaren,” the baroness said. “I’m hoping you will entertain us with tales of your adventures at sea.”

  “I am at your service,” he replied. “But I must warn you, life at sea is very dull.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Carr said. “The capture of an eighty-gun ship is anything but dull.”

  He grimaced inwardly. He’d recounted the story to his superior once. That had been more than enough. “I am no’ certain that type of excitement will interest you,” he said.

  She cast him a shrewd glance. “I feel certain you do not mean that it is a story a woman cannot comprehend.”

  “Not at all. It is a bloody story, to be sure.”

  She laughed. “Many women thrive on such stories.”

  Including you? he wanted to ask, but said, “So true. Have you ever been aboard a ship, my lady?”

  “In fact, I have sailed on a warship,” Lady Carr said.

  That surprised him. They reached the refreshments room and he stepped aside and allowed them to enter first. He scanned the crowded room and spotted two empty seats near the hearth. “If you would like to sit”—he nodded at the seats—”I will fetch champagne.”

  “Perfect,” the baroness said. “Shall we, Leslie?”

  She angled her head. “Of course.”

  They headed toward the seats and he weaved through the crowd to the table to find a servant setting out more glasses.

  “I’ll have a glass filled in just a moment, sir,” the young man said.

  “Two glasses, please,” Evan said. “And no need to rush.”

  The lad pulled a bottle of champagne from a box.

  A man stepped up beside Evan. “So, it is you, MacLaren.”

  Garthland.

  Evan canted his head in acknowledgement. “My lord.”

  “I am surprised you have time to attend parties. Do you not have a ship to capture somewhere?”

  Evan turned a cool smile on the man. “Rest easy, my lord. I shall soon be back on the seas protecting your shipping interests.” Within a fortnight, in fact. He had to admit excitement at the prospect of seeing America. Evan snapped from his thoughts, aware that Garthland had spoken.

  “I beg your pardon?” Evan said.

  Garthland’s face reddened. “You forget yourself.”

  From the corner of his eye, Evan noticed the servant had filled three glasses. He picked up two and faced the viscount. Evan gave a slight bow, said, “My lord,” then turned and headed for the women.

  He spotted Lord Barnton with the women. There was no mistaking the purposeful way he towered over them in their seats. Baroness Trent stared up at him in amusement. Lady Carr, however, had murder in her eyes. Evan rounded three men and brushed past a group of ladies, then continued toward the ladies.

  “…fortunate nothing happened,” Barnton was saying as Evan neared them.

  Lady Carr’s eyes shifted past the earl to him. Barnton looked over his shoulder and locked gazes with him. Amused condescension sparked in the man’s eyes.

  Evan reached them. “My lord,” he said, then turned to the women. “Your champagne, ladies.” He handed them each a glass.

  “How fortunate that you are acquainted with MacLaren,” Barnton said. “Perhaps he will regale you with the story of how he took the Zeus.”

  “He took the ship without losing a single man,” Lady Carr said.

  Evan stilled. There was no mistaking her sickeningly sweet tone.

  The earl’s mouth thinned. Her barb had hit its mark. He smiled coolly at her. “You and Mr. MacLaren have
something in common.”

  She arched a perfect brow and sipped her champagne.

  “You both got very lucky…once.”

  Heat flashed through Evan. He opened his mouth to reply, but Lady Carr said, “Really, my lord, it has been a month, and you are still angry?” She gave a low laugh that sent a message straight to Evan’s cock. “I really thought you a more gracious loser.”

  Loser?

  Fury flashed in the earl’s eyes.

  “Ah, yes, I forgot,” she said. “You didn’t actually lose. Your horse injured its leg.” She tilted her head to the side and looked at him through her lashes. “Shall I challenge you to another race? What are the odds your horse would injure itself a second time?”

  A race—a horserace—and she beat the Earl of Barnton. How he wished he’d seen that.

  Barnton looked down at her. “A gentleman does not challenge a lady to a horserace.”

  “Indeed not,” she agreed. “But you didn’t challenge me. I challenged you.”

  “A horserace,” the baroness cried. “What a wonderful idea. Lady Carr, I have a spirited Arabian I believe would suit you perfectly. He is a god among horses. We call him Ares.”

  Lady Carr laughed. “After the god of war?” Her gaze remained on the earl. “If his lordship rides the same bay he raced with last month, I fear Ares would give me an unfair advantage.”

  The earl stiffened.

  “Never fear,” the baroness said before he could reply, “I have a dozen horses from which to choose. I feel certain Lord Barnton will have no trouble choosing a worthy animal.”

  Barnton’s mouth thinned. “As I said, a gentleman doesn’t—”

  “I wager she will beat you,” Evan said.

  The earl’s head snapped in his direction. “You would lose,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Evan shrugged. “I not only bet she will beat you, but that she will beat any other participants. Five hundred pounds, shall we say?”

  Lady Carr’s mouth parted in surprise. “Mr. MacLaren, there is no need to risk your money.”

  Barnton gave him a nasty smile. “You would be wise to listen to the lady, MacLaren.”