Seduction Regency Style

by Louisa Cornell

  Yearning threatened to buckle his knees—until she caught sight of him and her expression struck him like a dose of icy water. Embarrassment and no small amount of fear washed over the woman, and she shrank before his eyes. The passionate creature of moments before folded into a demure, submissive-looking woman.

  As she struggled to tuck her unruly locks back into a bun at the back of her head, he noticed she was neither particularly young nor terribly old. Her clothing, grey and practical, did not flatter her. When she composed her features into a bland expression, the siren that had enticed him with her music disappeared. This woman, startled by his arrival, was an entirely different being.

  “I apologize for interrupting you, madam.” His eyes meet her cautious brown ones. “I’ve come to look for Miss Ann Dunwood.”

  “You’ve found her,” she said in tones so soft he strained to hear.

  The urge to shake this colorless creature until the one before reappeared almost choked him. “I—that is, we haven’t been introduced. I am Sir Alexander Bradshaw. Reverend Salter said I might approach you.”

  Wariness altered the woman’s bland expression for a fraction of a second. He realized, at last, how she must feel, confronted by a total stranger at an oddly intimate moment alone in an empty church. “Let me explain. Sir Stirling James suggested you might have an interest in private tutoring.”

  Wariness gave way to puzzlement in the lady’s expressive face.

  “My daughter, that is. You might teach her music.” He babbled. There could be no other word. He stuttered to a stop. When she didn’t reply, he continued, “Again, I am sorry I interrupted. I’ll take my leave.” He turned to do so.

  “No. Wait. Sir Alexander, what exactly do you require?”

  He outlined his request, and she agreed with no demure. He almost wished she would argue, but knew that for a foolish thought. They agreed she would come to his townhouse to meet his daughter the following week.

  He left, his steps echoing in the now-silent church. “Foolishness,” he muttered under his breath.

  He pushed away an oddly bereft feeling and let satisfaction of a plan well sorted take its place. Now, he believed, his quiet life could go on uninterrupted.

  Lillian, stubborn girl, balked at being ordered to Kirkwall when “the days still held sun enough for walking and the sea still tossed its treasures on the shore,” or so she wrote in her letter from Ramskeld, announcing that she refused to come to Kirkwall.

  When did my daughter start writing like a poet?

  He suppressed a smile at the carefully written note in his hand. Stubborn was stubborn. He would have to go fetch the girl. A thought gave a lift to his heart: perhaps he could take the new music tutor. That might change the chit’s mind.

  Chapter Three

  “But I can’t go off with a man, Mrs. Salter.” Ann’s stomach tightened at the mere thought of the tall stranger with intense grey-blue eyes who had invaded her private space two days before.

  “Maud,” the reverend’s wife corrected, although Ann had known her for one day.

  “Maud, then. It isn’t seemly to go off with man. What will the parish think?”

  “You talk as if he suggested an illicit affair! The man merely asked if you—chaperoned by a maid from his townhouse—would help him transport his daughter to town.”

  “And a piano,” Ann murmured, weakening.

  “Yes, a piano. One he claims is too big for the townhouse.”

  A piano! The size implied a full pianoforte. It had been years since Ann had access to one. Music resounded in her head.

  “He requests that the parish house it until his daughter moves back to Ramskeld,” Maud continued. “As to the parish, my dear, what must you think of us? We’re a practical lot here on Orkney, and Sir Alec is much beloved. No one would suspect him of vile intentions, nor think less of you for coming to his aid. Go fetch Lillian Bradshaw so she can keep her father company this coming winter, and bring that instrument that puts the stars in your eyes with you.”

  Ann blinked up at the woman.

  “Yes, I can see the idea pleases you. We can make use of it with the choir school, and we’ll have Lillian’s sweet voice to add to it. We’ll start when you get back. You shouldn’t be more than a week.”

  So, it was that, two days later, Ann took a seat in a farm wagon and found herself rolling along a rutted road in the fading October light while Sir Alec rode beside the wagon on horseback. Ramskeld, it transpired, lay on the West coast of the main island and was best reached over land than by sea. She would have described the lumbering conveyance as a farm wagon at one time, but its high walls and cover put a lie to that. It was, she had been informed, a practical Orkney vehicle built for sturdiness to withstand the roads, and converted to a sled when needed. It was also large enough for both cargo and luggage, although she could not imagine how they would transport a pianoforte. Her seat, while not lush, was padded, and the walls and thick lap robes protected her from the fierce north winds.

  The sides of the wagon stood low enough for her to peer over and give in to the urge to study Sir Alexander Bradshaw’s broad shoulders and graceful hands on the reins of his horse each time he neared to inquire after her comfort. Faced with Sir Alec’s raw masculinity, she wondered how she had found one such as Ronald Herring, a wisp of a man in comparison, attractive. She suppressed a niggle of guilt and gave herself permission to enjoy the sight.

  They left Kirkwall long before the tardy dawn made its appearance, stopped once at a friendly farmhouse for tea and porridge—“To warm you, lass,” Sir Alec had said—and continued on their way. Now late in the day, the cold threatened to outpace her tolerance. When she thought she might be unable to bear it, he rode alongside and leaned in, his breath a cloud of vapor when he said, “You must be near frozen, Miss Dunwood. Can you endure a bit longer? We ought to reach Ramskeld in an hour.” Warm eyes studied her.

  “I will manage, Sir Alec,” she replied, and she would. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had cared as much for her welfare, and she refused to take advantage.

  They rolled into Ramskeld in the dark, and Ann, numb with cold, forced her frozen eyelids open to peer up at the massive stone manor. Before she could form much of an opinion, two strong hands reached in to lift her out. Heat, welcome yet embarrassing, shot through her when he pulled her into his arms and strode toward the door.

  A muffled rumble welled up from his chest, “The blasted weather turned worse. We should’ve stopped at the Marwick place. I was so anxious to get here that I left you to freeze. I’ll have you in the warmth in a moment.”

  “I—” Ann couldn’t formulate a demurral, and she suspected he wouldn’t listen. In any case, he had her up the steps and through a massive wooden door before she could think.

  As the door closed and warmth enveloped her, Sir Alec ordered the coachman to see to her maid before he took the horses to the barn. When he hesitated, still holding her against his chest, the room’s heat almost overwhelmed her. She welcomed it, though, and inhaled the masculine scent of pine and rosemary.

  “Mrs. Martin,” he boomed in a commanding voice, “tea and that hot stew you keep at the ready, if you please. The lady has had a cold ride. Johnny, bring blankets to the drawing room and build up the fire.” It sounded like she’d arrived in heaven.

  “It be ready, Sir Alec. We expected you,” a young man’s voice said.

  Her captor strode toward the drawing room he had mentioned when another voice broke in, “I don’t want another governess, Papa. I hope that woman isn’t one. I don’t want one, and I won’t go to Kirkwall, either.”

  Perhaps not heaven, after all.

  ***

  His daughter’s voice yanked Alec from his absorption with the soft bundle in his arms, and none too soon. He ought to be seeing to the woman’s comfort and not enjoying the feel of her in his arms. He set her in a high-backed chair in front of the fire, pulled a woolen around her knees, and scanned her for signs of injury.r />
  Red cheeks speak of warmth, don’t they?

  “Do you hear me, Papa? Do you even listen?” His daughter trailed after him into the room. She stared at the woman in the chair.

  “Good evening to you, as well, Lillian. Is this how you make a guest welcome?”

  “A guest, Papa?” The girl’s skeptical expression would have been comical if not so rude.

  “May I present Miss Ann Dunwood, Kirkwall’s new organ master.”

  Childlike eyebrows shot up, which emphasized eyes the same dark blue shade as his own. “What need has Ramskeld of an organ master?”

  “Miss Dunwood offered to help me transport the Bradshaw piano to Kirkwall.” Although he sinned by omission when he left from that statement “and my children,” his musician guest’s expression showed she knew “offered” for the lie it was.

  Alec had no time to consider her expression, however attractive. It was his daughter’s face that concerned him. A war went on behind those eyes. If she objected to the piano moving, she would reveal her care for music and perhaps a bit of disloyalty to her mother who wouldn’t have cared a whit. Defiance won. The tiny but determined chin went up.

  “That would be your business then, Papa.” She spun on her heels, and her echoing steps left the room in silence.

  “Organ master?” Miss Dunwood asked from the chair behind his back.

  “Aye, you are that, Miss Dunwood. A master of the thing.” She opened her mouth and closed it again, puzzlement and hope on her face.

  Doesn’t the woman know her own worth?

  Before Alec could pursue the subject, a footman entered with a steaming pot of tea and two cups. He set them next to Ann Dunwood, and to Alec’s relief, she poured a cup.

  When she began to offer the tea to him, he raised his hand to stop her. “I’ll take my tea upstairs when I change. I must first speak to the staff about a room for you and your maid.” He left while he could think of something other than the fascinating woman now residing under his roof. He would have the staff see to her needs while he retired to his room to eat and sort through papers he’d brought—and cool his attraction.

  Deep in the night, warm at last, he picked up the final piece of his business correspondence with Sir Stirling James and stuffed it into his valise along with his notes. A thin piece of vellum slipped out—one he had not seen before.

  Bradshaw,

  Take care lest you overlook what is right under your nose.

  —S.J.

  Alec glanced back at the papers he had filed.

  Whatever could he mean?

  Chapter Four

  The wind blew wild over the shore and up the hill. Ann gave a prayer of thanks that Olivia and Sir Stirling had forced her to acquire a thick cloak and woolens. The plaid shawl wrapped around the clasped neck of her cloak held her sturdy winter bonnet in place and warmed her ears, while the wind stung her cheeks, watered her eyes, and thrilled her soul.

  She had awoken later than her habit, when the maid lit candles against the Orkney darkness. The awkwardness of having a maid, a luxury she hadn’t experienced since she left her mother’s house, passed once the girl—Peg, she called herself—teased her into waiting for her morning chocolate. She’d spent a quiet morning in her room reading until the world lightened enough to venture out safely. She slipped through a side door, seeing neither her host nor his children, determined to ponder the man’s words of the evening before: “master organist,” “guest,” and “offered.” The last word, at least, amused her.

  Once faced with the sea, all grey-green and unfettered, she had thought of nothing else. What would it be like to be so wild and free, attacking life with the audacity and strength with which the sea beat against the land? She looked about for a way down the cliff and found a path to her right. She hurried to the waves in her sturdy boots over well-trodden gravel, only to pull up short of the tide, unwilling to be drenched. The rhythm of the waves lay down a bass line for the symphony of the wind and seabirds, music on the waters. She flung her arms wide and let wind and salty mist cleanse her thoughts and fill her with a fierce joy.

  “What ho, Miss Dunwood!” A familiar voice broke into her absorption, as if from far away. She turned with reluctance, wondering how long he had been calling.

  Sir Alexander Bradshaw—Sir Alec, as everyone called him—strode toward her, while two small boys ran back and forth at his side, and danced around him, taking time every now and then to toss sticks into the sea, their hair blowing in the wind. At Sir Alec’s side, the young girl of the night before plodded along, a fierce frown marring her features.

  I’m interrupting time with her father.

  She watched the family approach, envying the smile her host poured down on his sons and the affection they returned. She had thought him a dour businessman, but here a loving father walked toward her with a wide grin on his face.

  “You’ve braved our cove,” he said by way of greeting. “I thought you might keep to the house.”

  “With this wonder spread out in front of me?” Ann responded, spreading her arms to encompass the entire beach. She couldn’t resist grinning back; he didn’t seem to mind.

  “My mother said a lady ought to take care in the wild weather,” Lillian grumbled.

  Ann’s heart sank. She had forgotten herself; she would give these people a dislike of her.

  She spied the basket in the girl’s hands. “Collecting treasures?”

  “Ordinary shells.” Lillian shrugged, studying her sandy boots.

  “Not ordinary, you looby,” the older boy exclaimed. “Ye’found two groatie buckies, and that’s good luck for certain.”

  “Aye. Lucky. Auld Peter says so,” the younger chimed in.

  “May I see?” Ann asked.

  After a pause, the older boy took the basket from his sister and held it up. “See. White ones, too.”

  Ann looked at the two perfect shells and murmured. “Lovely ‘groaties.’ Some folks call them cowrie shells, but we Scots know better, don’t we?”

  “Ye’re not an Ornkey woman,” the boy said.

  “But Scottish all the same,” she replied, drawing a smile. “I’m Ann. What’s your name?”

  “I’m Wee Alex and this is m’brother Robbie,” he said. “That crabby one’s my sister Lillian,” he added on a whisper.

  “I met Miss Lillian last night,” she replied.

  “And your father failed to make the introductions today,” the man said, frowning at his silent daughter. “Thank you for displaying such good manners, Alex,” he added with warmth in his voice. He turned to Ann and his eyes lit up.

  Because of me? She doubted it.

  “We’re heading for the house and for some chocolate. Would you care to join us?” Sir Alec asked.

  “I’ll race you, Robbie,” Alex called. He thrust the basket toward his sister.

  “You keep it since you know so much about groaties,” Lillian growled.

  “Na. It’s yours, Lil. You carry it.” He dropped it at her feet and raced off to catch his little brother.

  Sir Alec offered his arm to Ann, who looked at it in wonder. Lillian grabbed the handle of the basket and stalked off after her brothers.

  “My daughter seems to have lost whatever manners she once possessed.” The quirk of his mouth caused her heart to do a curious stutter.

  She took his arm and watched the racing boys. “She wants your entire attention, I think.”

  “She has an odd way of getting it.”

  “I think she will try to monopolize you however she can,” Ann said.

  “Interesting,” he replied. “I’ll have to think about that.”

  They proceeded to the house in silence. She wondered if he was considering what she told him.

  Typical man. Unable to recognize what is right in front of him.

  He reached to open the massive front door and paused. “Shall I show you the piano this morning, Miss Dunwood?”

  “You might ask Lillian to show me,” she replied.
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  His eyebrows shot up. “After…”

  “Give her a chance, at least. Perhaps both of you can introduce me to it.”

  Chapter Five

  A room dedicated to music was an anomaly on Orkney. Alec had insisted on it in the early, hopeful years of his marriage, and Lucy had acquiesced to his desires as she did in all things. He approached the room with his sullen daughter, and the sound of someone tuning his piano, scales slowly run and frequently stopped, reached his ears. The sight of Ann Dunwood’s graceful back where she bent over, listening carefully for sour notes, filled his senses.

  “Thank you, Miss Dunwood. I fear the piano needed that.”

  Her head jerked up. “Sir Alec, I—” A hand fluttered to her neck. “I thought it best to tune it if we are to play. It will require tuning again after we move it.”

  “It sat idle these past few years, I fear, since…” Since Lucy died, since I haven’t been able to bear the sound of piano music.

  “I play it, Papa,” Lillian said. “You don’t notice.” The scowl on his daughter’s face wrenched his heart. Miss Dunwood’s assertion that the girl needed more attention pricked his conscience.

  “Do you, my love? I’m so glad. Thank you for minding the music for me.”

  “Wonderful, Miss Lillian.” Anne gestured at the keys. “Perhaps you can play for me. You know, show me how well this beauty sounds.”

  Lillian let go of his hand and walked toward the piano. She peered up at Ann. “I only know two pieces. Mama didn’t teach me often, and then she wasn’t well.”

  The threat of tears thickened the little one’s voice and tightened the noose that seemed to squeeze Alec’s heart.

  Before he could speak, Miss Dunwood said, “That must have been hard for you! How strong you must be to practice what your mother taught you. Come show me.”

  His daughter’s mood lightened when she perched on the bench. It had not occurred to Alec that Lillian might have inherited his love for music. Lucy had been indifferent, at best. Hiring a music teacher now felt like the most brilliant decision he had ever made.