A Season of Seduction

by Jennifer Haymore

  Her shields would shatter. She would no longer be safe. She’d be as vulnerable as she’d been with William.

  With a low noise that sounded like a cross between a growl and a moan of dismay, he yanked her tightly against him. Her breasts crushed against the smooth heat of his chest, and she sighed in bliss. The warmth and comfort of his bare skin pressed against hers was inexplicably pleasurable.

  “I’d never willfully cause you harm, Becky. Never.” His voice shook as he said it. The rawness of his tone bespoke his honesty. His body resonated with it, and she knew he told the truth.

  She did trust him, as much as she could trust any soul. She truly hadn’t allowed him to crawl under her skin—well, not too much. She’d already promised herself she wouldn’t allow him—or anyone—to hurt her. If she kept up her guard, she could protect herself from pain.

  “What if…?” Her voice trailed off again. There were so many “what ifs.” What if he didn’t find her up to his standards for a bedmate? What if it hurt? What if he were to get her with child?

  She simply could not take this as lightly as Cecelia would. Such a joining held great significance. When she stripped off her clothes, she stripped away her only tangible shields. How could anyone take such a thing lightly?

  She’d only known Jack for a few weeks. They weren’t married. If Jack possessed any desire to wed her, he’d have gone to her brother rather than to surreptitious private late-night meetings at a hotel.

  “No,” he said quietly. “I won’t hurt you. I will give you pleasure. No regrets.”

  “No regrets,” she repeated softly. She slipped her arms around his waist until her right arm would straighten no further and laid her head on his shoulder. “I am not innocent, Jack, but then again, I suppose I am in some matters. Such encounters are very new to me. Before this night, the only man who had seen my bare chest was my husband. In the dark. I didn’t quite understand it until now, but by removing my clothes, you render me vulnerable. I dislike being vulnerable… but…” She struggled for the right words. “In a primal, most frightening way, I wish to be vulnerable to you.”

  “It’s all right.” His fingers trailed down her back, to the place where her dress had fallen to her hips. She sank into his embrace, soothed by his touch. “I am not the kind of man who would take advantage of a lady and then spurn her. Whatever might happen between us, know that I will take every precaution to protect you, both in body and in spirit.”

  It was a pretty speech. Outwardly, she knew that, and she also knew that a man would say almost anything to entice a woman into bed. But the quiet vehemence in his voice did much to allay her fears.

  “I want you, Becky. From the moment I saw you, I wanted to bed you.”

  She almost laughed. She had thought herself utterly debauched for thinking the exact same thing about him.

  “But those feelings do not scratch the surface of all there is to this night. There is so much more.”

  It was true that she felt that way, but he was a man. What more could there be to him? She tilted her head to look at him quizzically. “Really?”

  He smoothed a thumb over her lower lip, pressing gently. “You’re beautiful, you must know that. You stand apart from the other ladies of the ton.”

  Her shoulders tightened. Talk of her looks always made her uncomfortable. She’d never truly felt a resident in her own skin. She often stared at herself in the looking glass and all she could see was a frightened, lonely woman, old beyond her years. A woman who’d made tragic, terrible mistakes, and nearly destroyed every person she’d ever loved in doing so.

  “You don’t like to be told of your beauty.” It wasn’t a question. He laughed softly, but there was bitterness in the sound. “Neither do I.”

  She remained silent.

  “That’s what it is, don’t you see? I feel a connection to you that I never have with another person. I feel innately that there is something that binds us, something beyond carnal attraction.”

  His words placated her even as alarm bells screeched in her head. He was too serious. He was speaking of a more intimate connection than lust.

  “Neither of us can know what the future will hold, but I have no intention of leaving you defenseless, no matter the circumstance.”

  She pressed a hand to his chest. “Noble Jack.”

  After a tense pause, he said in a low voice, “Never make the mistake of thinking me noble.”

  He made no sense. He went on about his honorable intentions—well, as honorable as intentions could be in such circumstances—and then said he wasn’t noble. She narrowed her eyes. “Then you’ve been lying to me.”

  “No.”

  “You tell me how noble you are, in so many words, and then say to me that you don’t possess the trait. How can that be?”

  “Some things are simple. My desire to have you, and to please you while I have you. My desire to keep you safe from harm. Other aspects of me are more complicated and certainly less noble.”

  She nodded, and again awareness of her body pressed against his warm skin flooded through her. She sighed in contentment.

  “You have taken me too far,” he said quietly. “Every second I am not inside you my suffering increases.”

  “You don’t look like you’re suffering.”

  Reaching behind him, he grasped her hand and pressed it between them, pushing it down over the hard ridge of his erection. “You’ve teased me, ever since that first night we were alone. Now, it happens when I am with you, and when we are separated I can’t stop thinking about you.” He gave her a disgruntled look. “This tends to become highly uncomfortable for a man after a while.”

  Becky fought a grin. “I’d apologize if the wicked part of me weren’t so wildly gratified to hear it.”

  His groan as she squeezed him was truly wretched, and Becky almost felt sorry for him.

  “Come to bed with me,” he said, his voice an arousing combination of entreaty and command.

  She pressed her palm flat against the slight curve of his pectoral muscle and closed her eyes. “Yes. Take me to bed.”

  Jack rose, lifting her as if she were light as a feather. Her dress, still draped around her waist, bunched at her hips as he walked into the adjoining bedchamber, kicking the doors shut behind them as they entered the room.

  The room was elegantly decorated. Art depicting landscapes of the Continent draped the walls. The carpet was lilac shot through with gold to match the similarly colored wallpaper. Candles burned from a pair of brass wall sconces, casting golden sparks of color through the room. The bed was the centerpiece. Tasseled golden ropes drew back velvet curtains of such a dark blue they appeared black, revealing an elegantly carved oak frame. A multitude of pillows in light purples, blacks, and golds covered the embroidered blue-black counterpane.

  It was a room designed for illicit trysts. Becky tried not to think of Mr. Sheffield planning it thus, but she couldn’t help it. A flush burned across her chest.

  Jack pulled the counterpane and blanket down and laid her on the soft sheet, propping her head on one of the pillows. She gazed up at him as he hooked his fingers under the fabric of her dress, and she promptly forgot all about Mr. Sheffield.

  “I don’t want to tear it,” he said when the material snagged over her bottom.

  She lifted her hips, and the soft muslin slid over her pelvis, down her legs, and off her body, leaving her completely bare.

  She focused on keeping her breaths even as his hands went to the falls of his trousers. She pressed her lips together and clutched the sheet beneath her in her fists as he kicked off his shoes and the wool slid down his narrow hips. Once he removed his trousers and stockings, he crawled onto the bed beside her.

  He gathered her against him until they were pressed together from head to foot, face to face, his heavy erection nudging her thigh. “I’m going to take my time,” he murmured, as if to himself. “It might kill me, but I will take my time.” He cupped her cheeks in his palms. “Remember what
I told you earlier.”

  “Remember…?” she asked faintly.

  “I wouldn’t hurt you for anything. Remember that.”

  “I… yes,” she breathed. “I’ll remember.”

  He kissed her tenderly, sipping at her lips as if she were ambrosia. She gripped his hard shoulders, her mind whirring, the aching need spreading through her body like a sweet poison.

  Grazing over her skin, his hand left her cheek and traveled down her neck and chest to her breast, plumping and kneading, his fingertips scraping over her nipple, making her squirm and gasp into his mouth.

  Moving his hand to the curve of her hip, he pulled her more firmly to him. Unable to help herself, she ground her body against him, needing him closer, wanting more.

  “That’s right,” he murmured. His hand slipped lower, right to the center between her legs, and she nearly lurched off the bed.

  “Too fast?”

  “No,” she whispered. “No.”

  His hand tightened over her mound, and she gasped. Lightning blazed through her, hot sparks of pleasure.

  His fingers pressed deeper. Becky held on to Jack for dear life as he began a slow glide over her sensitive, slick skin. “Oh,” she gasped, her body arcing toward him.

  She kept her eyes open, fixed on his face, despite the urge to slam them shut. His gaze remained on her, steady and determined. “I want you to come for me.”

  She made an incoherent noise. She’d been close earlier when he’d lavished attention on her breasts. Now, she didn’t know if she could. The sensations were too powerful. Almost overwhelming.

  His gaze, so focused on her, so steady. His sex, growing ever harder against her thigh. She squirmed against it, seeking it as she sought his touch. Light from the candles danced across his broad shoulders, making them shine bronze.

  He was so beautiful. And his eyes were dark with want, brimming with lust. His lips were parted with need, his breath releasing in harsh rasps that drowned out the sound of her own exhalations and filled the room with his desire.

  Yet he didn’t push her down and make her his. He worked her slowly, patiently, until she whimpered. Her fingernails scored his shoulders. Her body shuddered from head to toe. The feeling—oh, it was beautiful and wicked and so heady she thought she might burst. It was a glowing sun of pleasure expanding within her, sending exquisite flames licking through her veins.

  “Oh,” she whispered on a moan. “Oh.”

  His fingers tightened over her, the pressure increasing. He pressed on that sensitive area, and she squirmed away, gasping, “Too much.”

  She would crawl out of her skin if he continued. He didn’t. He gentled his fingers, tracing circles around that too-sensitive spot. Still, he studied her, watched her closely.

  He was learning her body, she realized. Learning what made her groan, what made her squirm. What made her come.

  He slipped a finger inside her, and she sucked in her breath and pushed her forehead onto his shoulder. She trembled as he moved inside her, learned about her most secret places, her unspoken desires, the places that made her sob with a need for release.

  “Come for me, sweetheart. Come when you’re ready.”

  His fingers pumped deep within her. She thought she might be torn apart, or that she might scream, or yell at him to stop or go harder, faster, do something to free her, to release the tension that had built so tautly inside her that her skin prickled with the need for relief.

  She heard the roar of blood through her veins, her own harsh breaths, and his rasping exhalations overlapping both.

  With a gut-wrenching sob, she came. The hot, tight ball condensing within her suddenly burst, exploded into a million sparks of agonized pleasure that shot through every nerve in her body. She froze, unable to move, to speak, to breathe, as it rushed through her, more powerful than any physical sensation she’d ever experienced.

  He didn’t stop. He stroked her through the powerful orgasm as her body clutched his fingers like a vise. She began to shake, her hands grasping at his back, trying to find purchase, and finally gripping his shoulders again. He was her lifeline. He kept her grounded, whole, kept her from falling completely apart.

  “My God,” she heard him say, as if from a distance. “My God, Becky…”

  The contractions in her body slowly began to recede, and his expert fingers continued to keep her from falling, bringing her down gently back onto the soft sheet.

  She was gasping, she realized. Loudly. Sweat—or was it tears?—caked a strand of hair to her cheek. Fresh tears leaked from her lids, and he kissed them away. “Don’t cry. Please, sweetheart, don’t cry.”

  A loud creak sounded from just outside the doors that led to the sitting room, and Becky froze. Jack jerked into action. He pulled away from her, tearing himself out of her grip and throwing the covers over her, hiding her body.

  The doors banged against the inside walls as they opened. Assorted gasps reached Becky’s ears. Panic surged, a cacophony in her head. Still in bed beside her, his torso bare but the sheet pulled up over his waist, Jack turned to the doorway.

  She clutched the bedcovers to her neck.

  “Rebecca!”

  Oh, God. It was her brother’s voice.

  Chapter Four

  Four years ago, Garrett might have yanked out a gun and shot Jack on the spot. But Becky’s brother was a changed man, a calmer, happier one, less likely to jump into action without thought. His wife had come far in taming him.

  Nevertheless, a powerful undercurrent of violence resonated in his voice.

  Becky turned to the door and gasped at what—or rather who—she discovered standing there. Not only her brother. As if that wouldn’t have been horrible enough. No, it seemed half the population of London crowded the door.

  Becky’s cousin Tristan stood behind Garrett, fury darkening his features. His wife, Sophie, was at his side. A large group of people Becky didn’t recognize stood behind them.

  “What is it? Let me see!” Lady Borrill thrust aside a slender young man and burst into the room. Others closed in behind her.

  Becky had been in a life-or-death situation before. She’d combated overwhelming panic and remained strong. But at this moment, she wanted nothing more than to shrink until she was pea-sized and disappear beneath the covers, or better, vanish entirely and never show her face to any of these people again. She stared dumbly at them, unable to move, to speak. Her hands clutched the bedclothes so tightly, her nails dug into her palms and broke the skin.

  For a long, charged moment, silence ruled. Then, all at once, noise erupted. Some murmured, others shouted, their words tumbling together. Garrett strode toward Becky and Jack, his face white, his lips tight, his fists bunched, looking for all the world as if he meant to murder Jack Fulton with his bare hands.

  Sophie lunged forward and grabbed his arm, trying to hold him back. She spoke, but Becky could not discern her words in the din.

  She could discern Garrett’s words, however, as he shook Sophie off as easily as a horse might flick its ear to rid itself of a fly.

  “You bastard,” he snarled, raising his fists. “That’s my sister you’re defiling.”

  “What the devil are you doing?” Jack demanded. “Leave this room. Now!”

  Garrett surged toward the bed. “I’ll kill you.”

  Sophie had turned to see the crowd gathered behind them, and Becky heard her groan of dismay. “Oh, dear.”

  Garrett froze, his features a tight mask. Then he sucked in a breath and whirled around. When he spoke, his voice was a low, menacing command. “Get the hell out of here.”

  Nobody moved.

  “Now!” he bellowed.

  People leapt into action, and within seconds, the crowd cleared and the door closed, leaving only Sophie, Tristan, and Garrett in the room with Becky and Jack.

  Again, Garrett advanced on Jack.

  Jack surged up, raising his hands. “I’m happy to fight you, duke, but is this the time and place?”

&n
bsp; “Yes.”

  Tension radiated from Jack. “Let’s do this in a civilized fashion. Will this constitute a formal challenge? Pistols at dawn?”

  “Fists,” Garrett snapped. “Now.”

  Perhaps Kate hadn’t tamed her brother as much as Becky had thought. Fear for Jack finally gave her back her voice. “No, Garrett,” she breathed. “Leave him be.”

  Garrett’s light blue eyes flicked to her and then away. His stance didn’t change, nor did his demeanor. As usual, she hadn’t affected him at all. Kate was the one person who could cool him, who could defuse his fury, but she wasn’t present.

  Tristan moved to stand beside her brother. He grasped Garrett’s shoulder, keeping him—only temporarily, Becky knew—a safe distance from Jack.

  Garrett’s icy blue eyes flicked again to Becky, and a muscle jerked in his jaw. He looked at Jack. “Get off the damn bed.”

  Jack obligingly slid off, holding one of the pillows to his groin. The sides of his buttocks hollowed and flexed as he stepped away from the bed. Becky was helpless against the tiny flash of arousal at the sight.

  Garrett pointed imperiously through the doorway leading to the sitting room. “Go in there and get dressed,” he said to Jack.

  Jack retrieved his trousers and glanced at Becky, who offered a quick nod. “As you wish.” He strode out of the room.

  Garrett bent and picked something up off the floor. It was the nearly transparent gown that Becky had worn. “Get some clothes on her.”

  Tossing the dress to Sophie, he marched into the sitting room. Tristan followed, shutting the doors behind them. Becky shuddered. At least she could be moderately hopeful that Tristan would prevent her brother from eviscerating Jack.

  Lady Borrill had told them. She must have recognized Becky and then gone to Tristan and Sophie, who had been at a dinner with Garrett. Heavily pregnant, Kate hadn’t been feeling up to going out tonight and had decided not to attend. But Garrett, Sophie, and Tristan had all gone to dinner in the same carriage. Somehow, Lady Borrill had communicated that Becky was here, involved in something not quite respectable, and of course Garrett had rushed to the scene, dragging along everyone else, without thought of the consequences.