Ripe for Seduction

by Isobel Carr

  “A fine inducement to marriage would be an actual declaration of love on your part,” Livy said as she pushed Devere back slightly so she could see his expression. She was certain that he did, but she needed to hear him say the words.

  His eyes widened, cocoa brown turning amber in the light. “Livy”—he cupped her face and lowered his head until he was staring directly into her eyes—“let me make myself perfectly clear. I love you. There’s no other reason I’d propose in earnest. Not to get you into my bed, not to enrich myself with your dowry, not to pave the way for my sister and your father. And if you don’t believe me, I’ll just have to work at it until you do.”

  Livy let the purity of the moment flood through her. She felt certain of herself and her choices for the first time in more than a year. She slipped her arms about his neck and settled a portion of her weight on him. “You’ll have to be the one to tell your mother I want to be married from Holinshed, bad omen or not.”

  CHAPTER 38

  After her father and his cronies departed, the house had slowly sunk into a dark, protracted silence. Livy had never stayed awake to listen to it happen before. First the sounds of the guests preparing for bed died away, followed by the muffled chaos of their maids and valets retiring for the night. Down below, she could hear the faint sounds of footmen moving about the house, checking doors and windows, rousting dogs. Then even that died away. It was as though the house sighed and settled in, not unlike the dogs.

  Livy clutched her wrapper around her as she slipped out of her room and sped down the corridor. Her slippers whispered across the floor, the kidskin soles unaccountably loud in the deep silence of the sleeping house.

  Her hands shook, and she curled her fingers into the light fabric of her wrapper. The night had turned sultry, making every layer of clothing feel like a burden. A distant rattle in the depths of the house made her jump and she froze in place before taking a shaky breath and running lightly to the end of the corridor. She turned the handle, relieved to find the door unlocked.

  Devere was sitting beside the cold grate, a tumbler of what she suspected was brandy in one hand and a book in the other. He glanced up as she eased the door shut. He didn’t look shocked at her arrival, but one brow rose appraisingly as he studied her. One of the candles on the mantel guttered in its socket, the hissing sizzle of its demise causing him to glance away from her.

  Livy caught her breath. Her heartbeat expanded to fill her entire chest. Heat flooded through her, pushing back the last bit of uncertainty. Devere stood up and set the book on the mantel. His hair was loose, and he was wearing a frogged dressing gown of striped silk, the combination making him look like a foreign potentate.

  Devere studied her, one side of his mouth sliding up into a ghost of a smile, and Livy realized she was still clutching the doorknob, as if she wasn’t entirely sure she was staying.

  “Lost?” he said, stepping forward so that the brace of candles lit him from behind, turning his dark hair into a halo.

  Livy shook her head. “I was hoping you’d still be awake.”

  Devere’s half-smile blossomed into a grin. “I was going to give the house another half an hour to settle in for the night before attempting to storm your room.”

  His glance flicked over her, appraising and possessive. Livy’s pulse stuttered before redoubling. She crossed the short distance between them and plucked the glass of brandy from his hand. She drank it down in one swallow and set the empty tumbler on the mantel beside the book.

  Devere tugged her into his arms, his mouth coming down over hers, lips soft but powerfully insistent. He pushed her wrapper off her shoulders and she let it slide down off her arms and onto the floor. Her maid would be horrified at such casual abuse. Livy smiled at the thought and put her energy into returning Devere’s kiss. What she was doing tonight would horrify Frith far more than the abuse of her wardrobe.

  Devere’s mouth slanted over hers and nipped along her jaw. His breath was hot on her, already damp on her skin. Livy fought with the frogs that held his dressing gown closed, her fingers stiff and clumsy.

  His hand covered her breast, cupping it, weighing it, rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Livy’s breath whooshed out in a gasp as she yanked the final closure free.

  Her encroaching hands met an expanse of fine linen rather than the naked flesh she’d expected. There was something about the idea of a rake in a nightshirt that seemed absurd. Devere chuckled and shed his dressing gown before yanking his nightshirt over his head.

  Livy took a step back and flicked an appreciative glace over him. She’d seen him naked at the pond, had covertly inspected every angle, trying to memorize the details. But this was different. He was hers.

  He was a big man, but lean like a working animal. Livy ran a finger along the sweep of his collarbone and over his shoulder. He felt like warm stone. Unyielding. Candlelight painted shadows across his skin, the hollows of muscle and bone were starkly beautiful in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

  Deft fingers loosed the tie that gathered her nightgown at the throat, and he dragged it down, exposing her breasts. Livy’s breath hitched as Devere tipped her into one of the large wingback chairs and sank down to his knees before her.

  His mouth found her nipple and he sucked hard, teeth rough against her skin. His tongue flicked and circled. A jolt of pure pleasure shot from breast to groin, painful and exciting at the same time.

  Her nightgown rose in a frothy wave as she spread her thighs so she could draw him in closer. She wrapped her hand about his rising shaft, and Devere tugged her to the edge of the seat. The dull ache of unfilled desire blossomed into something far more acute.

  Too impatient to go slowly, Livy slid the engorged head of his cock along her already slick folds, guiding him to where she wanted him. Devere paused, and Livy hooked a leg behind him, trapping him in place. She caught his earlobe between her teeth. “One of the few perquisites of my situation is that I’m not a virgin you have to go slowly with.”

  Devere’s grip on her tightened as he thrust in. Livy gasped with pleasure as he filled her and dug her nails into his back. She’d forgot what it felt like, the momentarily alien sensation of her body stretching to accommodate a man. And a cock was utterly different than a finger or two; there was something about it that made her feel complete in the moment.

  Livy raised her other knee, and wrapped both legs around Devere as she arched to meet him. Her husband had been decorous, had handled her gently, almost with reverence, but he’d never once made her quake with need as she did now.

  “I can’t wait,” she said against his neck, inhaling the scent of his skin, letting it flood over her and run through her like a drug. “Don’t make me wait.”

  Devere gave a throaty chuckle that echoed through her as he shifted, deepening the angle of their joining. Livy sobbed into his shoulder.

  “Stay with me,” he said, his body driving into hers, each hard stroke pushing her closer to her climax. Her thighs began to quake and her toes tingled. Devere clapped his hand over her mouth at the first hint of a scream and then rode the flickering pulse of her release all the way down to his own. His head dropped into the hollow of her shoulder, and Livy hugged him. She could feel the faint throb of his cock inside her. Her body constricted in response, and Devere moaned into her neck, the sound vibrating through them both.

  He lifted his head to kiss her. His tongue traced her lips and then pushed inside as he cupped her face with one hand. He glanced from her to the bed. “Give me a moment and we’ll do that again.”

  CHAPTER 39

  A soft, insistent whine woke Margo before it was even light. Maldon. She slipped out of bed and padded across the room to let the dog in before he raised the entire house. She found herself smiling dumbly at the one-eyed beast’s shaggy countenance, even as she shivered and shifted her weight from foot to foot on the cold wooden floor.

  The hound’s happy whine of greeting changed into a low growl as he pushed past
her and stepped into the room. His shoulders bunched as he hackled and his growl erupted into a series of barks so loud Margo felt momentarily deafened.

  “Maldon, no. There’s nothing—” Her correction died in her throat as she saw the man standing behind one of the chairs near the fireplace. Fury swamped the flicker of panic as she recognized him.

  “Call that damn thing off,” Carlow shouted as Maldon continued to bark. The hound squared off between her and the intruder. The man kept the solid wingbacked chair between himself and the dog.

  Margo backed slowly out of the room, the horrible import hitting her just as the other guests appeared at her back, crowding into the corridor until it seemed like there must be dozens of them rather than only a handful.

  Margo glanced from the bleary, startled face of Lord Hynde back to Carlow. She was going to be sick. “It would serve you right if Maldon ate you,” she said, meaning every word. Not that it would do her any good. A mauling would simply add to the splendor of the gossip.

  The circle of witnesses moved back as though she were a burning ember. She could see Rolly at the end of the corridor, just emerging from his room, still pulling on his dressing gown. A confused-looking Lady Olivia stood behind him. None of the other guests even noticed the real scandal taking place behind them. Everyone’s attention was riveted to her own unfolding drama.

  “Maldon, come!” Margo eased the door wider. The great hound still stood in the middle of the room, a growl like thunder emanating from its throat. She called the hound again, and it slunk over to join her in the hall, casting a warning eye back at Carlow as it did so.

  “What’s going on?” Roland said as he glanced into the room and Carlow emerged from behind the chair.

  The murmur of conversation grew. Lady Olivia pushed her way forward. Would anyone but Margo register her tousled appearance? No, not with Carlow, equally tousled, standing in her room like an actor ready to make his debut.

  “I can’t seem to find my other slipper,” Carlow said.

  Rage whipped through Margo. Nothing she said or did would outweigh the simple fact of his presence. “I can only assume you left it in your room before invading mine,” she said.

  “Invading?” Carlow made a show of buttoning up his dressing gown and pushing back his hair. “You and I both know I was invited. How did you put it? The tedium of country life is only surpassed by the tedium of the attentions of gentlemen who aspire to the squirearchy. I think I have that right.”

  “You’re a liar,” Roland said as he put a steadying hand on her shoulder.

  “Am I?” Carlow didn’t even bother to look at her brother but kept his triumphant gaze locked with Margo’s.

  “You are,” Margo said, refusing to flinch or back down. “And I’m fairly certain the earl will think so, too.”

  “What I think, Madame la comtesse, is that you’re little better than a titled whore. And I think Arlington will realize that once he hears about last night. Can you even name all of your past lovers—”

  Carlow’s denouncement was cut off as her brother’s fist sent him crashing to the floor. The dog leapt to its feet with a growl, clearly ready to join in, and Margo caught it by the collar and hauled it back. Maldon strained in her grip as Carlow scrambled up. He swiped at the blood trickling from his nose with the sleeve of his dressing gown.

  “Say it again, Carlow,” Roland said. Margo knew full well that her brother, much like Maldon, was more than prepared to tear Carlow limb from limb.

  “Your sister’s a whore. And it’s bad enough that she’s playing my cousin for a fool, but you’re doing the same to Olivia. Did you know he has a mistress, Livy? She’s blond like you. A timid little thing. So frightened of her own shadow she never leaves the house where he keeps her.”

  Livy felt the focus of the room shift from the comtesse to her. A gaggle of mostly elderly men, absent their wigs and wearing nothing but their nightshirts and the occasional banyan, all turned to goggle at her. She looked at Devere, who stood flexing his hand as if he’d like nothing better than to hit Henry again.

  “He wouldn’t.” Her throat seemed to swell shut on the words. Devere wouldn’t do that to her. He’d promised.

  Henry gave a disparaging snort and dabbed at his still-bleeding nose. “Ask him why he couldn’t accompany you to Holinshed. Go ahead. Ask. He and I both know why. Because he was too busy at number five Chapel Street. She must be quite something, eh, Devere?”

  Devere’s hands clenched into fists but he didn’t say anything. Something like horror crashed through her. Her hands were icy cold, and her blood felt sluggish in her veins. This couldn’t be happening.

  “Say something,” his sister said, her hands still locked on Maldon’s collar even though the dog had stilled.

  Devere glared at Henry and then turned his back on him. “Come downstairs and let me explain.”

  “Explain that you aren’t keeping a woman in a house on Chapel Street? I don’t see what would prevent you from doing that here and now.” Devere was a masterful liar, but at the moment the ability seemed to have entirely deserted him. His expression was bleak as he glanced at their audience and then back to her.

  “Livy?” His tone was almost desperate.

  Livy nodded as she sucked in a shaky breath. He wasn’t denying it because he couldn’t. Several people, including Lord William, had hinted at just such a thing, but she’d brushed it aside as mere gossip. “I don’t want an excuse. There should be no need for one.” She took a step back from him, skirted around the knot of stupefied-looking men, and strode to her own bedroom door as quickly as she could.

  How could everything have seemed perfect only a few minutes ago? She’d been tucked into his bed, putting off yet again the decision to return to her own room, too happy and content to force herself out of his arms. He’d said he loved her. He’d seduced her into loving him, just as he’d said he would.

  Devere caught her as she was turning the knob. No one else had moved. They were all rooted in place like the chorus of a Greek tragedy. “She’s not my mistress,” he said, keeping his voice low.

  “No? And Henry is lying about your sister seducing him as well? Look at them”—she pointed down the corridor to the men outside the comtesse’s room—“not a one of them believes you. And why not? Because they all know you. Both of you.”

  Devere’s brows drew down into a frown. “I thought you liked Margo?”

  “So did I. And I thought you loved me, that you understood that I’ve had my fill of public humiliation. But I was clearly wrong.” The lump in her throat was making it hard to breathe. She pushed open the door and stepped inside, turning to prevent Devere from following her.

  “You’ve won your bet, so let’s have an end to it. I love you, or I did last night, as fantastical as that seems at the moment. And you’ve certainly ensured my father won’t try to force me back into society, so you’ve fulfilled your part of our bargain as well.”

  “Does it comfort you to know you’ve won yours too then?” he said as he rested his head against the door frame. He looked sick, his usually olive skin as pale as new plaster.

  “Making you wish you were dead?” Livy said, a sudden spurt of anger causing tears to well up hotly behind her eyes. “Good. That makes two of us.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Olivia slammed the door shut, and Roland heard the sound of the lock being turned followed by what he was almost certain was a sob. Damnation. He was going to throttle Henry Carlow.

  He spun about and marched back down the hall. The remaining guests were milling about outside Margo’s room uncertainly. Not a one of them would look him in the eye. Margo was leaning against the wall, slowly stroking the ugly brute of a dog that had adopted her as mistress.

  Carlow was nowhere to be seen.

  “Whichever of you sees Carlow first can tell him, if I ever so much as set eyes on him, he’s a dead man,” Roland said as he strode toward them. He stopped beside his sister. “Get dressed, darling.” He tucked a st
ray curl behind her ear and whisked away the start of a tear with his thumb. “We’ll leave as soon as the coach can be made ready.”

  She nodded and slipped back into her room, taking the dog with her. Roland glared at his fellow guests until they broke apart and scattered toward their rooms. It wasn’t their fault he and Margo had the reputations they did, but it was infuriating to have been stitched up by them when, for once, neither of them was actually guilty.

  He was in the process of yanking on his coat when his valet appeared with a basin of hot water and a towel over one arm. The only sign that Martin had been hastily rousted from his bed was the burr of whiskers on his jaw and the slight disorder of his neckcloth. Martin moved at once to help him with the coat.

  “The coach will be ready in a nonce, sir.”

  Roland allowed Martin to shave him and then haphazardly knotted his own neckcloth while Martin put up his shaving things. Roland paced across the room. Anger was giving way to something that left him feeling hollow. He didn’t want to leave, though that was best for Margo, so he would. He wanted to track Carlow down and feed him to the ravens.

  He pulled his purse from his coat pocket and handed Martin a wad of bills and coins. “Pay the servants their vails and bring the comtesse’s maid and our baggage back to town.”

  His valet nodded and turned to pick up Roland’s hat. He fidgeted with the cockade before handing it over along with a pair of gloves. When Roland stepped out of his room, there wasn’t a soul to be seen. Good. There wasn’t any chance of his being able to take leave of them with even common civility. He knocked on Margo’s door, and it was opened by her furious-faced maid.

  He stepped into the room, and Margo gave him a wavering smile. “Shall we shake the dirt of Norfolk from our heels?” she asked.

  Roland held out his hand to her. The skin beneath her eyes looked bruised. She didn’t deserve this. She was in Carlow’s way, just as he was, and the man had quite masterfully disposed of them both. There had to be a way to turn the tables on him, but at the moment, Roland couldn’t see it. He felt as though his brain had been addled. He couldn’t seem to form a coherent thought that went beyond murdering Carlow.