Seduction Regency Style

by Louisa Cornell

“Three,” Stirling called.

  Evan stepped forward again, and again and again until…

  “Nine,” Stirling said.

  Evan took another step and tensed in readiness for the tenth and final step.

  “Ten,” Stirling said.

  Evan took a step and swung the pistol up as he turned.

  “Stop!” a woman shouted.

  Chapter Nine

  Leslie‘s ears rang with the roar of the pistols. She glimpsed the flash of gunpowder and almost tripped over her skirt as she lunged from the trees. Evan staggered, then fell to the ground.

  Voices rose in pandemonium. Leslie reached Evan and dropped to her knees beside him. The men reached them, and the torchlight illuminated the furrow in the side of his head. Her head spun. The doctor dropped to his knees on the other side of Evan.

  “His head is bleeding.” Panic blurred her vision.

  The doctor pressed two fingers to his neck.

  “He is not dead, you fool,” Leslie snapped.

  “Aye,” he replied as if speaking to a child. “Stirling” –he opened his bag and pulled out bandages— “please have the cart brought over.”

  He spoke in a maddeningly calm voice that made Leslie want to box his ears.

  “Bob,” Stirling said, and the footman handed him the torch, then hurried to the cart.

  “Stirling, give me a hand,” the doctor said.

  Stirling grasped Leslie’s arm. “My lady.”

  She shook him off.

  The doctor looked up at her. “Madam, if you would prefer my patient not bleed to death, I suggest you allow Sir Stirling to help me.”

  She blinked. Stirling pulled her to her feet and she turned and found herself enveloped in Baroness Trent’s arms. Her heart thudded as they bandaged his head, then lifted him onto the cart. Stirling and the doctor jumped onto the cart, and Stirling ordered the footman to take them to the mansion. Leslie started after them.

  Sir Stirling gave her a gentle smile. “You and Baroness Trent can walk through the grove. You will likely reach the mansion before we do.”

  She hesitated as the cart rolled forward, then allowed Baroness Trent to urge her toward the trees.

  Stirling was correct. They reached the house before the cart. Baroness Trent hurried into the house and soon returned with four more footmen. Leslie paced the center of the drive until she spotted the cart, then retreated to the base of the steps as the cart pulled up close to the front door. The footmen carried Evan upstairs to his room and Leslie helped bring up sterilized bandages. The doctor made no comment on his condition. Her only consolation was the steady rise and fall of Evan’s chest.

  Once they cleaned and bandaged his head, the doctor said, “The bleeding has stopped, but only time will tell if the trauma to his head caused any damage.”

  “Damage?” Leslie said. “What kind of damage?”

  The doctor glanced at Stirling.

  “I would not worry about that, my lady,” Stirling said. “Evan is a strong young man. He, no doubt, will wake with little more than a headache.”

  “What kind of damage?” she demanded again.

  The doctor rose. “If there is any swelling in the brain, there could be complications. The brain has a remarkable ability to heal. Keep a close eye on him for the next day. I will return tomorrow morning.” He gave her a gentle smile. “Of course, if anything changes, do not hesitate to summon me.”

  Leslie wanted to say more, to demand he do something, anything, to rouse Evan. But Sir Stirling thanked him and the doctor left.

  Leslie swung on Stirling. “Of all the foolhardy things to do. Why the did you allow him to participate in this duel?”

  “Do you believe I could have stopped him?”

  “You could have tied him and taken him off somewhere until his temper cooled.”

  Stirling’s brows rose. “If you think that his actions were borne out of a temper, then you sorely underestimate him, my lady.”

  She gave her head an impatient shake. “Yes, yes, you know what I mean.”

  “Aye, I do. But you must understand Evan is,” he paused, “well, he is very old fashioned.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “If you think that I will be swayed by the ridiculous notion that a man must protect a woman’s honor by risking his life, I will say that you are as foolish as he is.”

  “I understand the impulse,” he replied.

  “The impulse?” she blurted. Her eyes burned with the need to cry. “I thought you had better sense. I simply cannot believe that Mr. Drucker’s aim was better than Evan’s.”

  “That surprised me, as well.”

  The steel in his voice gave her pause.

  His gaze shifted past her and she looked over her shoulder. The footman who had driven the cart stopped, his gaze on Stirling. Leslie returned her attention to Stirling.

  He smiled gently, but she noted the gleam in his eyes when he said, “If you will excuse me.” He brushed past her and when he caught up with the footman, they continued away.

  Leslie lifted her skirts and started after them at a slow pace. When they turned down the stairs up ahead, she hurried forward and slipped down the darkened stairs.

  “…did you find?” Sir Stirling’s voice drifted up to her.

  “Nothing,” the footman’s baritone voice was easily audible.

  “You…on…his lordship?”

  “Sound asleep,” the footman replied.

  “It had to be him.” Stirling’s voice was louder.

  Leslie’s heart pounded. It had to be him? His lordship? Barnton? Something more than just a duel had taken place.

  “You are sure you saw…” the remainder of Stirling’s words were unintelligible.

  “Aye, my lord. Positive.”

  They reached the next floor. Leslie hurried down the remaining stairs and broke out into a well-lit hallway. The two men were twenty paces ahead. They stopped and turned. Sir Stirling frowned as Leslie hurried toward them.

  She reached them, and he said, “Is something wrong, my lady?”

  “What is wrong is that you are not telling me what really happened.”

  His frown deepened. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I overheard you in the stairs.”

  His gaze bore into her. “Just what did you hear?”

  “That you checked on Lord Barnton and found him sleeping and that it had to be him. Also, that you were looking for something. What exactly were you looking for, Sir. Stirling?”

  He didn’t answer for a beat, then said, “The man who shot Mr. MacLaren.”

  Chapter Ten

  “I must admit, I wouldn’t have taken you for the sort to cheat,” Leslie told Sir Stirling ten minutes later.

  “It isn’t cheating, exactly,” he said. “Henry and I”–he nodded toward the footman who stood to his right—”simply made sure neither of them could shoot the other, even accidentally, and honor was satisfied.”

  Honor.

  She willed back the tears that hovered too close to the surface, and said, “I think Mr. MacLaren would be angry if he knew you tampered with the pistols.”

  “I imagine not,” he replied.

  Leslie regarded him. “You seem to understand him quite well. I assume you were once like him?”

  He gave a wry smile. “Not so long ago.”

  Anger tightened her stomach. “I imagine there is no way to prove that Lord Barnton was the man shooting from within the trees?”

  Sir Stirling shook his head. “I am afraid not.”

  “If anything happens to Evan, Lord Barnton will not answer for the crime.” Leslie glanced in the direction of the stairs. She needed to return to him.

  Sir Stirling squeezed her arm. “I have great faith in Doctor Graham. Not to mention, as I said earlier, Mr. MacLaren is a strong man.”

  She started to turn, then stopped. “Forgive my earlier behavior. I accused you of being reckless. You are anything but reckless.”

  “You couldn’t have known.”


  “You might have told me you tampered with the pistols,” she said.

  “I thought it better if no one knew.”

  “I wonder why Lord Barnton shot him,” Leslie said more to herself than Stirling. “What has he to gain?”

  “The duel will take the attention away from him, muddy the waters,” Stirling replied.

  He was right, of course. She nodded, then hurried away.

  When Leslie reached Evan’s room, she half expected him to be sitting up in bed, eating some of the broth Baroness Trent had made for Lord Barnton. Instead, his eyes were closed and the blanket that covered his chest lifted and fell with each shallow breath. She drew a chair up to the bed and laid a hand over his heart. A strong, even beat thumped against his chest.

  The door opened and Baroness Trent entered. She crossed to the bed. “I thought I would find you here. The doctor said he needs rest. I can have one of the servants sit with him. Come, my dear, eat something and get some rest.”

  Leslie shook her head. “Nae. I am not hungry.”

  The baroness sighed. “I will have tea and biscuits sent up.”

  Leslie nodded, but her attention remained on Evan. The door clicked shut behind the baroness and Leslie finally gave into tears. Why didn’t he wake up?

  “You fool,” she whispered. “Lord Barnton’s lies were not worth your life.”

  She lowered her head and let the tears slide down her cheeks. This was too much. She barely knew the man, yet the fear that he would die and leave her twisted her heart. Was he always this reckless? Leslie pictured him on the bow of his ship as a cannonball whizzed past his head. How many brushes had he had with death? A duel with a fop like Mr. Drucker must have seemed like child’s play to him—and would have been so, if not for Lord Barnton.

  Leslie swiped at the tears. If Evan didn’t recover— She cut off the thought. He would recover. And when he did, she would forbid him from such dangerous behavior.

  “You understand?” she whispered. “This foolish behavior must end.”

  Please.

  Her thoughts came to a screeching halt. How many times had Carr said those very words to her…including the plea? Was this how he had felt when he forbade her from certain behavior…racing, in particular?

  She sobbed. How had he lived with the pain?

  How could she live with the pain?

  She looked up and cried out at sight of Evan’s blue eyes staring.

  “Y-you are awake.”

  His eyes flicked to the window, then said in a hoarse voice, “It is morning.”

  She glanced at the window and realized dawn had broken.

  “I see Mr. Drucker is a better shot than I gave him credit for.”

  She looked back at him. “What? Oh, nae.”

  His dark brow lifted and she wanted to cry. He was too handsome.

  Leslie shook her head. “I cannot bear the pain of seeing you hurt. If anything were to happen to you—” She broke off and shook her head.

  His gaze intensified. “You did say you’d been on a warship before.”

  She blinked at the change of subject. Fear stabbed. Had the wound caused damage to his brain. “Are you well, Evan?”

  “I have never been to America,” he said. “Have you?”

  “America? Nae.”

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “Good. That means we can see it for the first time...together.”

  “Together?” Leslie gasped. “I—” She couldn’t speak.

  He withdrew an arm from beneath the blankets and covered her hand with his. “No need to worry, love. I will not try to change you.”

  “Not try to change me?” She choked back a sob.

  His expression sobered. “What is amiss, Leslie? You can trust me. I understand your need for freedom. I promise not to put restraints on you.”

  She stared. “But why would you risk the pain?”

  He flashed a crooked smile. “A man in love risks much.”

  Her eyes widened. “Love? That-that isn’t possible.”

  His eyes gleamed. “Come with me to America and find out.”

  She stared.

  “Marry me.”

  She froze.

  His eyes darkened with challenge. “If you dare.”

  Epilogue

  Leslie stood at the railing of the frigate, Evan’s arms wrapped tight around her as the ship rose and fell with the choppy waters. The Atlantic stretched out before them. Warm, salty air whipped the hair that had broken free of the braid coiled about her crown. Evan nuzzled her ear.

  “Are you certain we will not encounter pirates?” she asked.

  “I am not at all certain,” he murmured.

  A thrill went through her—both because of the tease of his mouth against her neck and the idea of facing down a pirate ship. She’d seen the sword Evan kept in his quarters. She would dearly love to see him wield the weapon. They had two months—more, if they were fortunate and the wind blew against them—to encounter pirates.

  “Perhaps we should retire to my quarters, Mrs. MacLean.” His warm breath washed over her ear.

  Leslie smiled. “We have spent nearly the entire week of our married life in your quarters.”

  “A newly married man is expected to spend a great deal of time alone with his wife.” He kissed her where shoulder met neck.

  She shivered.

  “Unless you are growing tired of me.”

  Leslie kept her hold on the railing, but relaxed her head against his shoulder. “That is not possible.”

  “I am pleased to hear that. Beware, however. With these rough waters tonight, we might be taking our lives in our hands trying to stay in my bed.”

  Leslie turned and wrapped her arms around him. “I am willing to take the risk.”

  Evan lifted a brow. “Indeed?”

  She nodded and pressed her body closer against his. “A woman in love risks much.”

  He flashed a heart-stopping smile. Then kissed her.

  ###

  Music on the Waters

  The Marriage Maker

  Book Thirty-Four

  The Marriage Maker and the Widowers

  Caroline Warfield

  The Marriage Maker and the Widowers

  Once, four gentlemen married for love. They lived in bliss, sure of their bright futures. But life dealt them a cruel blow and they again found themselves alone and without love. Time marches on. Love is now a distant memory. Only duty remains—and duty demands they remarry.

  In this uncertain age, a man can’t be too careful. Only a lady of quality who understands the duties of a wife and mother will do. No scandal can be attached to these ladies. No charlatans, gamesters or spendthrifts. And, God forbid, no woman susceptible to the romantic idea of love.

  Who better to contract four suitable ladies to become wives to these gentlemen than the man known as the Marriage Maker? After all, a commoner who married the future Duchess of Roxburgh must understand that marriage is a business.

  Sir Stirling James understands all too well… and he can’t resist a challenge.

  Dedication

  To my writing cohorts Jude Knight, Sherry Ewing, and Susana Ellis. Thanks for helping me along every step of the journey.

  There be none of Beauty’s daughters

  With a magic like thee;

  And like music on the waters

  Is thy sweet voice to me…

  Lord Byron

  Prologue

  Bella Graham bided her time. She watched her husband and their friend, Sir Stirling James, share brandy and a game of chess in her fashionable Edinburgh parlor. She encouraged her husband’s friendship with the canny businessman who had married into a title and wealth but had little need for either. Sir Stirling chose his friends for their wit and character, and he particularly sought out self-made men like her husband Dougal.

  She admired Sir Stirling for that. He never failed to visit when he came up from Inverness on business, and Bella knew his respect meant the world to Dougal, a crofter’s s
on who raised himself to become one of the city’s most successful physicians.

  Tonight, however, she needed Sir Stirling’s help, and the Marriage Maker, as he had become known, was the man to give it.

  The game finished soon enough, and the two of them joined her where she sat over her needlework by the fire. Her husband’s friend smiled in greeting. “Dougal tells me you’re sending young Davie to public school next year. Unleashing him on the Sassenachs?”

  “Yes, and it serves the bloody English right.” She glanced up with a twinkle in her eye. “He’s old enough, for certain, and both the education and the contacts he will make there will serve him well in life,” she added more seriously.

  “He has his eye on a career in government, God help him,” her husband added. “His quick mind would serve the crown, if those jackals at Whitehall don’t eat him alive.”

  “He’s years yet and school ahead of him. Perhaps he’ll change his mind when he’s a man grown,” their guest suggested. “He might take up something more respectable than politics, like piracy or smuggling.”

  “One hopes not!” Bella answered, drawing a chuckle from her husband. She glanced at him and back at their guest. “Actually, Sir Stirling, I hoped to speak about your other specialty, if you don’t mind my raising it.”

  “I saw Mairi before dinner.” Sir Stirling smiled over his brandy. “She’s growing up quickly, as well, and a beauty. Dougal will be barring the door to suitors before long, but I doubt she’ll need my ‘specialty’ to make a match.”

  “We’ll see when the time comes,” Dougal answered. “Some ladies need a push in the right direction.”

  Bella felt her cheeks heat and knew her husband peered down at his drink to hide a grin. A push, indeed. Dougal Graham could be very persuasive when he needed to be.

  “It isn’t only young ladies who need sense hammered into their stubborn heads,” Bella retorted.

  Stirling chuckled. “For every lady I assist, there’s a match, so certainly not. Stubborn bachelors require delicate handling, as well.”