Jack had always been his mother’s child, his mother’s favorite. His father had showered his attention and his love on his two eldest sons, and Jack had never earned much notice from him, except on occasion as someone to vent his frustrations upon when life was not going his way.
When he was six years old, Jack had been blamed for the crops at Hambly rotting due to too much rain. When he was eight, he’d been accused of swaying a particularly important decision in Parliament. When he was twelve, he was solely responsible for the failure of an investment his father had made in a canal.
Between the ages of twelve and eighteen, Jack had gone away to school and had managed to avoid his father for the most part. But when he was eighteen, the murder of the Marquis of Haredowne had coincided with the failure of Jack’s middle brother, Edward, to win a promotion to the rank of post captain in His Majesty’s Navy. Of course, that was Jack’s fault, too.
After the charges against him were dismissed, Jack was sent away forthwith, and weeks after he’d left England, his mother had died suddenly. Jack hadn’t heard of her passing until months later. They’d been anchored in Sydney, and in the midst of his anguish and grief over his mother’s death, Jack had received a letter from his father.
She’d died because of him, his father said. Because she was brokenhearted about the embarrassment Jack had caused to their family.
Jack knew it was nonsense. His mother had remained his most steadfast, staunchest supporter through every second of the ordeal. Yet a part of him had shriveled and died at those words, and he’d crumpled that letter, held a candle to it, and watched it burn, promising himself that he’d never again listen to a word his father said.
Becky’s lips thinned further as Jack’s father chuckled. “To be sure, sir, I never imagined my son settling down and marrying, especially into a family as fine as yours. He’s a scoundrel of the first order, does naught but toss away his allowance on hells and women.”
Jack ground his teeth. Not only were those words inaccurate—the man had interacted very little with Jack for the past twelve years—but they would do nothing to ingratiate Jack to the duke.
Jack had never understood his father. He never would. He could only count the hours until this night was over. He’d have to interact with his father and his brother—fortunately his middle brother had finally been promoted to the rank of post captain and was currently at sea—only at his forthcoming nuptials, and then he’d be free of them until the next family obligation arose, which Jack prayed wouldn’t be anytime soon.
The duke shrugged. “You may trust I have looked into his affairs. I found nothing out of the ordinary.”
Jack’s father continued blithely. “Indeed, I never thought he’d be tamed. Fidelity is not a strong suit in our family, is that not so, Bert?”
Bertrand, who often left his wife in the country only to be seen at various events in London with his mistress on his arm, choked down the wine he’d been holding to his mouth and swallowed, patting his napkin on his lips. Jack felt little fraternal affection for his oldest brother, who’d spent the better part of their childhoods reminding Jack and Edward of his superiority as the eldest son and heir.
The Duke of Calton’s blue eyes narrowed into slits, and Lord Westcliff cut in, bringing his champagne glass to his lips. “We are certainly ahead of ourselves, aren’t we? They are yet to agree on forging a permanent connection.”
“Surely marriage is the best solution. Indeed, the only solution,” Jack’s father said.
Bertrand chose this moment to open his fool mouth. “What my father says is absolutely true. Ever since their—ah—discovery, my brother and the lady have been made fools of up and down the streets of London. I have heard that a playwright is fashioning the story of their discovery into a farce about the morality of the upper orders.”
Jack thought that playwright would do better to base his work on his brother’s life rather than his own, but he felt no impulse to respond. He couldn’t open his mouth without showing his disgust for his father and brother’s behavior, and he wouldn’t show his loathing here. No matter how compelling the temptation to put them in their place, the truth was that he was of their blood, and he would not further the damage either was doing to his estimation in Becky’s family’s eyes.
Beside him, Lady Bertrice muttered something unintelligible and poked a fricasseed pea into her mouth.
Jack’s father leaned forward and spoke past Jack and Lady Westcliff. “What was that you said, ma’am?”
Lady Bertrice swallowed her pea and raised her fork meaningfully. “Said it was a fine thing for my niece to suffer, when she is among the most principled of her class.”
Jack’s father and brother raised matching disbelieving brows. “Is that so?” asked his father.
“Mm.” Lady Bertrice raised her monocle again and peered through it, her gaze sweeping from the duke at one end—still looking mightily annoyed—to the duchess at the other.
“I’d wager any one of you seated at this table tonight could easily surpass Rebecca in debauchery—both in thought and in deed.”
Westcliff gave an easy chuckle. “No doubt you’re right on that score, Aunt.”
Lady Bertrice’s enlarged eye focused on her niece, who sat at the other end of the table, across from her. Becky stared back at her aunt, her shoulders tight beneath the luxuriant silk.
“Of course, she could make it easier on all of us if she weren’t so deuced stubborn.” Lady Bertrice’s eye slid toward the duke. “That comes from our side of the family, no doubt, because you’re the same way, boy.”
“It’s not stubbornness.” Becky spoke stiffly, still gazing at her aunt.
Becky had thrust away the openness she’d shown him before dinner; she’d stiffened and grown cold. With an aura of regal aloofness and a crown of ebony hair, she’d transformed into the Queen of Winter in ivory silk. She was beautiful.
“Pray tell me what it is, then, if it not be stubbornness,” Lady Bertrice demanded.
“It’s common sense.”
Jack’s father choked out a short laugh. “Common sense? Really? How can it be common sense to encourage a scandal?”
“Indeed,” Bertrand added, “I should think that sense requires—no, it demands—marriage.”
Becky shook her head as she carefully placed her fork on her plate and then looked up at Jack’s brother, who sat beside her to her left. “It doesn’t, in fact. Common sense demands caution. Marriage is a permanent state and hence it requires a thoughtful, careful approach. Jumping into it in a reckless fashion could wreak far more damage than playwrights, artists, and gossips could ever hope to.”
She spoke from personal experience, Jack knew.
“I agree, Becky,” Lady Westcliff said. “And you point out a common shortcoming of our class—the tendency to leap into such matters without forethought.”
The duchess sat at the end of the table opposite the duke. She had spent most of the evening in contemplative silence, but now she spoke. “Indeed,” she agreed. “I always am saddened to see the unhappy marriages prevalent in our class. So many wives voluntarily spend months separated from their husbands, and when I search for the root cause, it is invariably because their marriages were founded on financial considerations rather than a mutual regard.”
Lady Westcliff and the duchess were attempting to steer the conversation to more general topics and away from Becky and him marrying. Jack was grateful for it. They’d been sitting here for over an hour, and during that time, he had observed the weight of the pressure building on Becky’s shoulders and felt powerless to stop it.
This wasn’t the way to go about winning her. This dinner was a mistake. They could prattle on about propriety, expectations, and scandal for the rest of her life, but that wasn’t what she wanted. It wasn’t what she needed.
She wanted peace. She needed to be freed from her fear. The way to do that was to be with her alone. To talk to her, to touch her. To prove that he was different from W
illiam Fisk; that he was the man who could bring her the happiness she believed was impossible to attain.
Jack’s father slapped his hands on the table. “I see!” he exclaimed. He flashed a jovial smile across the table at Becky. “I finally comprehend your hesitation, my lady. You know as well as I do that my son is a wastrel—of course he is! He’s got nothing, whereas you are rich as Croesus, and he could very well be after you for your money.” His grin widened. “I do not envy you, child. Still, there is the matter of propriety and duty, is there not? And the matter of this wretched scandal. If you don’t do whatever you can to stop the talk, it will only worsen. There are children in your family who could be affected by this years from now.”
Becky’s lips curved stiffly. “Thank you, sir.”
Jack’s father’s eyes widened. “Why… you’re welcome!”
“The solution is now clear,” she said, her voice quiet but with a steely edge.
“Well, that’s excellent!” Jack’s father blustered.
She was impressive, so cool, so elegant, her back straight, her violet eyes cold and clear. She possessed far more strength than Jack had originally given her credit for. First she’d eschewed propriety and risked permanent exile from society with her refusal to marry him, and now Jack sensed that she was on the verge of giving his father the set-down of his life. Despite knowing that her solution wouldn’t be compatible with his bid to become her husband, Jack’s admiration for her soared.
“You’re correct about the scandal escalating and you’re correct about its effect on my family,” she said with chilly politeness.
Bertrand muttered his assent. Her family stared at her, forks poised—some in midair—and Jack’s gut tightened at their expressions. They knew what was coming, just as he did.
Becky stood. Instantly, Jack thrust his napkin aside and rose. All the other men followed suit. Snagging his chair leg on the expensive Persian carpet, his father was the last to rise.
She addressed the entire table. “By continuing with our association, Mr. Fulton and I are only adding fuel to this fire. I shall retire from London until the scandal has been put to rest. I intend to remove myself from this situation entirely.” Her dark blue gaze traveled to Jack. “Forgive me, Mr. Fulton, but I believe this is the best course of action.”
So many feelings crashed through him—respect, excitement, affection, dread, alarm—he could hardly push a word out. “Becky—”
She dipped her head in a semblance of a curtsy, swiveled, and left the room.
Chapter Seven
Jack caught Becky as she placed her hand on the banister and planted her foot on the first step. He grabbed her wrist, stopping her, and she turned to face him.
“Don’t go.”
She shook her head helplessly. “There is no other solution.”
His grip on her wrist tightened, his skin warm against her chilled flesh. “Yes, there is. Marry me. We’ll work everything else out later.”
Her lips twisted. She leaned toward him, lowering her voice. “What if we cannot ‘work everything else out’? What if we find ourselves locked in a miserable match for the rest of our lives?”
“That won’t happen.” His voice was firm, the look in his eyes hard and determined. She didn’t understand how he could be so assured, but then she remembered. Of course. He’d never been married before. He didn’t know how awful it could be to be married to a person who despised you.
“Let go of me, Jack.” Her voice was quiet but strong.
He loosened his grip but didn’t release her.
She glanced in the direction of the dining room, and seeing no movement, she turned back to him. “What if your father is right? What if you are a wastrel and a scoundrel? What if all you want from me is my fortune? What if you prove to be as inconstant as they are?”
She’d heard rumors about his father’s and brother’s infidelities. She wasn’t blind or deaf, and these were the things the married and widowed ladies of London society gossiped about.
Jack’s eyes locked onto hers. “I am not like them. You know in your heart I am not like them.”
She gazed at him for a long moment, tempted to agree, to say she knew she was being hopelessly stubborn and that she believed him.
Instead, she shook her head. “No. I don’t.”
Anger flashed, sharp and hard, in his dark eyes, and his jaw muscle flexed as he ground his teeth.
“How can I?” she asked. “We’ve spent only a few hours together.” Even less time than she’d spent with William before throwing her life at him. “It’s not enough.”
“Don’t go, Becky. Don’t leave London.”
Across the hall, the door opened, and Kate bustled up to them, her skirts rustling. She paused when she reached the bottom of the stairs, inclining her head at Jack. His fingers slid from Becky’s wrist.
“Good night, then, Mr. Fulton.” Without another word, Kate grasped Becky’s hand and marched her up the stairs. Jack didn’t say anything, but Becky felt the heat of his stare as they disappeared from his sight.
She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until they entered her bedchamber. She exhaled, then inhaled deeply as Kate closed the door firmly behind them.
“Sorry I took so long.” Kate plunked her encumbered body onto Becky’s bed. Her cheeks were pink with the exertion of their flight up the stairs. “There were certain feathers to unruffle at the dinner table.”
Becky sank into her soft peach armchair. “It’s quite all right. I managed.” She tried to smile at Kate. “And thank you for unruffling those feathers.”
“It’s my fault for inviting the lot of them. I truly had no idea that Mr. Fulton’s father and brother would be so…” Sighing, Kate changed the subject. “Are you really going to leave us?”
“I think so.”
“But where will you go?”
Becky shrugged. “I don’t know. Calton House, or…” She paused, thinking of the one other place she might go. Seawood—her house in Cornwall. It was the one thing in the world that belonged to her and her alone. But she’d never been there before, never seen it, had no idea what to do with it…
“Calton House,” she repeated, her voice firm. It was the house she’d grown up in. Familiar and safe.
All spark drained from Kate’s vivacious brown eyes. “Oh, Becky.”
A knock sounded on Becky’s closed door, and Becky’s chest tightened. She swung her gaze to the door, and when she said nothing, Kate asked, “Yes?”
“It’s Cecelia.”
Becky’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Come in.”
Cecelia blew in, a compact, elegant ball of energy. She took the time to close the door with a firm snick. Turning to Becky, she shuddered. “What an abominable man that elder Mr. Fulton is, and that awful Bertrand takes after his father. Indeed, they are nothing like the youngest Mr.Fulton at all. Are you quite all right, Becky? And do you truly intend to leave London, or was that just a threat?”
“I feel it is best that I leave.”
“Where will you go?”
“To Calton House in Yorkshire.”
“Please don’t,” Kate begged, her voice a near whisper. She pressed her hand to her belly. “You were there for Jessica’s birth, and I so want you to be there for this babe as well. I… I need you.”
“Oh, Kate.” Helplessness surged through Becky. Kate was right. She couldn’t leave London, because she must be there for the delivery of her sister-in-law’s child. Yet she must leave London, to escape the scandal and Jack Fulton. “Truly, I don’t want to go, and I don’t want to leave you, but…”
“When is the babe expected?” Cecelia asked.
“Not for a few weeks yet,” Kate said. “But there is always the possibility that the child might come early.”
Cecelia gave a brisk nod. “I’ve the perfect solution, then. You shall come to my house. Jack Fulton needn’t know you’re there at all. It is quiet at Devore House, I rarely see visitors, and you can have the
time and space to be alone and think without the pressures of your family.” She cast an apologetic glance at Kate. “No offense, Your Grace.”
Kate didn’t seem angry at all; instead she appeared relieved. “None taken, my lady.” She turned to Becky. “I understand that you need some time to be alone, and I heartily approve. Lady Devore is right—it is the perfect solution. We will not make it known that you’ve remained in Town, and you’ll have some time to yourself to mull things over. And I’ll have the assurance that you’ll be close and can attend to me the moment I need you.”
Becky rose from her armchair and went to sit beside Kate on the bed. “Forgive me, Kate. You’re all so torn between wanting me to be happy and wanting this scandal to go away, I can feel it, like a black cloud hanging over us all. You don’t want to exert pressure on me, and yet it’s difficult for me to hold on to my resolve under the force of it.”
Kate squeezed her hand. “I’m so sorry that you feel coerced. I promise you, it’s not intentional.”
“I know,” Becky said. “Truly, I do. But I still feel it.”
Kate nodded gravely, and tears shone in her eyes. “Then it’s for the best that you go. For a little while. I do hope you’ll return to us soon.”
“I will. I promise.”
The three ladies spoke for a few minutes longer, arranging for Becky to stay a few weeks at Cecelia’s house and for Kate to send a message if she went into labor so Becky could be present at the delivery.
After they fetched Josie and helped the disgruntled maid to pack, Becky’s luggage was loaded onto one of Garrett’s carriages, and at midnight, the carriage drew into the drive at Devore House. Cecelia led Becky to the guest bedchamber she’d used to prepare for her assignations with Jack, and Josie helped Becky undress. She fell into the bed and, after an hour of staring at the dark ceiling, sank into a fretful sleep.
When she awoke late the next morning, bright shafts of sunlight streamed through the crack in the rose-embroidered damask curtains.
A Season of Seduction Page 9