How To Seduce A Sinner

by Adrienne Basso

  He could see she was not entirely convinced, so he kept his expression firm. Finally, she sighed and nodded. “As you wish, my lord.” Then she hesitated, looking down at their clasped hands. “Though the major is only half the problem, as you very well know.”

  Two hours later, Carter found himself knocking on a door in a run-down London neighborhood. It had not been difficult to find Roddington’s direction.

  “Yes?” A stoic, unfamiliar face peered out of the half-opened door.

  Carter gazed levelly into the face of a man whose direct stare and stout bearing suggested military service. A comrade or servant? Honestly, it didn’t much matter. Carter presented his card.

  “The Marquess of Atwood to see Major Roddington. Is he at home?”

  Revealing his identity put the man on even higher alert. He straightened his already squared shoulders as his mouth crumbled down in a frown. “The major’s not here.”

  “Is he expected back soon? My business is of a personal nature and rather urgent.”

  “Ah, so now after all these years, it’s urgent, my lord?” He favored Carter with a cold, appraising stare that Carter returned with equal measure. The question hung in the air.

  The man blinked. “I’ll let him know you’ve been here,” he said gruffly.

  Carter gave him a curt nod and turned around. He ducked his head under the low doorway as he exited the building, his mind in turmoil. For a full minute he stood on the street, trying to decide his next move. It was not a particularly fashionable neighborhood, but he had seen worse. Perhaps the duke was right, though. Perhaps all Roddington did want was money.

  “Out slumming, Atwood?”

  Carter relaxed at the familiar male voice. “Benton, what brings you to this part of Town?”

  The viscount grinned. “I’ll agree there’s not much to recommend the area, but there is a superior tobacconist a few blocks away that I frequent.”

  “By any chance is there a decent tavern nearby?”

  “I might know of one or two.”

  Carter grimaced. “Well, lead on, my friend. I find I have a great need for some strong libation.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Tell me, Benton, what would you do if you discovered you had fathered a child?” Carter asked.

  The viscount’s head whipped around. “Christ’s blood, what have you heard?”

  Benton’s face was white as a sheet. It took a moment for Carter to realize his friend thought he was referring to a child Benton had sired. Damn, no wonder the man looked so pale.

  “Calm down, my friend. It’s a theoretical question.”

  The viscount exhaled and slowly unfisted his clenched hands. “Bloody hell, Atwood. Questions like that can give a fellow a heart seizure.”

  “Sorry. Given the life we have both led, I suppose it’s more than a rhetorical possibility.”

  “Damn right.” Benton lifted his glass with a none too steady hand and took a long drink. “One is careful, of course, and takes precautions, but there’s no guarantee. As far as I know, I have never gotten any female with child. And you?”

  “What? No!” Carter felt his own hand begin to shake and he regretted ever starting the conversation. Something he probably would not have done if he had been completely sober.

  “Well, it can’t be Dawson,” Benton mused. “The man’s proper enough to be a vicar. No, make that a Catholic priest. Don’t they take a vow of celibacy?”

  The viscount signaled for another bottle of brandy. The luscious barmaid who brought it to their table lingered longer than necessary, tossing her long red hair and flashing her breasts practically beneath Benton’s nose. The normally flirtatious viscount barely glanced at her.

  “It’s Roddington,” Carter announced, when they were once again alone.

  “Ah, army men. They have a hard life. Stands to reason they live it to the fullest. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear he’s left a trail of little soldiers across the Peninsula.”

  Carter shook his head, trying to clear his foggy brain. No, that wasn’t right. “Roddington’s not the father,” he declared. “Roddington’s the bastard.”

  Benton smiled amicably. “So I’ve heard. Still, one can’t help but admire the man. He made his own way in the world, despite the disadvantages of his birth. There’s opportunity for advancement in the military, but war is messy business. Thundering cannons, smoke and ash, corpses strewn on the battlefields. I wonder if I’d have the courage to so bravely acquit myself in battle.”

  A wave of confusion swirled in Carter’s head. What the hell was Benton prattling on about—war and courage and battlefields? That had nothing to do with this conversation. “No, listen to me. Roddington is the bastard who claims the duke is his father.”

  “The duke? Which duke?”

  Carter shot Benton a bleary-eyed glare. Even half-sotted, Benton could usually hold his own. They both could. It was a source of pride among them that they could keep their steps steady, no matter how much they had to drink. Well, except for the time they tripped and fell into a fresh pile of horse dung in the road. But that happened years ago, when they were still at Oxford.

  Carter took another swallow of his brandy and tried to remember what he wanted to say. Hell, he must be far drunker than he realized. “Roddington claims my father is his father,” Carter finally declared.

  “The duke is whose father?”

  “Roddington’s.”

  Benton glared at him over the rim of his glass. “Surely you are joking.”

  Carter slumped forward dejectedly. “He denies it.”

  “Roddington?”

  “No, the duke.” Honestly, how difficult was this to understand?

  Benton’s eyes widened. “Frankly, I didn’t think the old boy had it in him.”

  “I don’t either. And yet…” Carter’s voice trailed off as he stared forlornly into his now empty glass.

  “Well, if I discovered I had a baseborn child, especially a son, I’d do all that I could to assist the poor bugger.” Benton poured himself another portion, spilling more on the table than in his glass. “And I believe the duke would have done the same, illegitimate or not.”

  Carter nodded his head. Though the idea of his father being unfaithful was a bitter pill to swallow, he did agree that the duke would never have shirked his responsibilities. If Roddington was his child, the duke would have provided for him.

  “Roddington claims he has proof of his paternity,” Carter said. He reached for his brandy and saw not one, but two fuzzy goblets in front of him. Jesus, he was drunk.

  Benton cocked a brow and peered at him though nearly closed lids. “What sort of document would prove such a thing?”

  “I have no idea.” Carter frowned deeply and abandoned his attempt to lift his glass, either glass. “Do you think Roddington’s bluffing?”

  “Has to be,” Benton concluded, his slurry voice authoritative. “You need to confront the major.”

  “I tried. That’s where I was when I ran into you. At Roddington’s rooms.” Carter closed his eyes. “But he wasn’t there.”

  “Shall we go back now? I’ll come with you.”

  Carter felt a surge of gratitude. Hell, Benton was a damn good friend. ’Twas a real pity they weren’t brothers. “I’m too drunk. So are you.”

  Benton slumped forward, then he raised his arm and beckoned the barmaid. “Coffee, my good woman. Pots and pots of it.”

  Despite reaching a modest level of sobriety a few hours later, Carter wisely elected to forgo a meeting with Roddington. At the viscount’s urging, he stumbled into Benton’s coach. A very sleepy footman opened the front door, showing no reaction at Carter’s very early morning arrival home. With an apologetic smile, Carter handed the young man his hat and greatcoat and ordered him off to bed.

  In his bedchamber, Carter found his valet dozing in a chair. Refusing his assistance, Carter likewise sent the protesting Dunsford to bed. Once alone, he shed his garments, leaving only his shirt and breeches
. Crossing to the nightstand, he filled the porcelain basin with cold water, then plunged his head inside. The water had a bracing effect, and by the time he toweled himself dry, Carter felt relatively sober.

  Barefoot, he crossed his room, walked through the spacious dressing room, and entered Dorothea’s bedchamber. The even sound of her breathing let him know she was asleep. Quietly he neared the bed, driven by a helpless need to see her.

  For a long moment Carter simply watched her. The light from his single candle cast a warm, amber hue on her ivory skin. A section of her golden hair had come loose from her braid and was spread across the pillow.

  Tempted by the sight, he reached for a fistful. Gathering it in his palm, Carter raised the silken tresses to his face and rubbed its softness against his cheek. The scent that was so uniquely Dorothea’s filled his nostrils, permeated his soul.

  His heart suddenly clenched. He could not put a name to what he was feeling, did not completely comprehend what she had come to mean to him. She was his wife, yet she was so much more—she was his partner, his mate.

  He depended on her, trusted her, adored her as no other individual. He thought back and tried to remember when this realization had taken hold in his mind and then decided it wasn’t a specific moment, but rather a collection of many that solidified her place in his heart.

  After their time together at Ravenswood, he had returned to London determined to resume his activities as if everything in his life were the same, as if taking a wife had made no significant difference. He consciously shut her out of his life because keeping a carefully cultivated distance seemed the correct approach to a successful marriage, especially because her feelings for him were so strong.

  He did not want to be the one who held all the emotional power in their relationship. It made him feel like a tyrant, a bully, to witness her vulnerability. So he had kept himself apart from her.

  But the truth was that his days were dull without Dorothea in them. Her brilliant smile, her sexy saunter, her teasing words. When he was with her, the mundane seemed special, the ordinary important. He, a man who had always secretly mocked sentimentality, found himself feeling a great desire to be with Dorothea both in and out of bed.

  Was that love? Carter sighed heavily.

  Dorothea’s eyes fluttered open. For a moment she stared up at him blankly, then she smiled as she recovered her wits. “I received your message saying you would be out this evening. I tried to wait for you, but couldn’t keep my eyes open. Is it very late?”

  Carter shook his head. Leaning close, he planted a kiss on her lips, a light, fluttering, brush against her softness. Pulling back far enough to see into her eyes, he studied her in silence for a long moment, his heart and mind rioting with revelations.

  “I love you.”

  He said it plainly, quietly. No flourishes, no long speeches, no fancy, florid rhetoric. Simply, sincerely, and from the heart.

  Her brow furrowed in confusion and he panicked, worried that after all this time he had done it wrong, that she needed a more passionate declaration, a more romantic setting. Should he have brought flowers? Jewelry?

  Lacking any sentimental gifts, and the opportunity to obtain them at this point, he repeated the words. “I love you, Dorothea. With all of my being and all of my heart.”

  Her eyes were fully open now, round and wide with wonder. Carter wasn’t sure if he had ever seen them so hopeful, so filled with joy.

  “Oh, goodness.”

  She lifted her face toward him and their lips met. Softly, slowly at first, but then with a growing urgency. She was so beautiful, fitting in his arms so perfectly, his heart so completely.

  They made love slowly, reverently. Every touch, every kiss held greater emotion, more meaning. There was passion, tempting and exciting, but it was tempered with an aching sweetness, a tenderness that came from the heart. From both their hearts.

  When it was time for their bodies to be joined, Carter rolled on his back and urged Dorothea to climb on top of him. He wanted to give her the power of control, he wanted her to know that he would surrender himself completely to her.

  The tips of her luscious breasts brushed against his chest. The sensual abrasion made his cock stand up harder as he ached to possess her. Her eyes were wicked and sultry when she lowered herself, sheathing his hardness fully inside. Wrapping his arms around her waist, Carter encouraged her movements, urging her to ride him hard and fast.

  She braced herself on her knees and followed his silent commands, sweeping them both in a mindless passion. He tried to hold back his climax, to prolong the moment so he could capture it and hold it in his heart forever, but she was a temptress, undulating her hips urgently, pushing them both toward an explosive end.

  The world receded to the edge of consciousness, straining the limits of his self-control. And then she leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

  “I love you, Carter.”

  Release pounded through him. His hands dropped to her hips and he held her in place as he ground himself against her. She cried out, and he realized she was climaxing, too. He did nothing to stifle the shout of pleasure that came from his throat, and she joined him with her own keening cry.

  Afterward, she slumped forward, a faint, drowsy smile on her lips. He rolled to his side, then turned and laid his head beside hers on the pillow.

  “I never dared to imagine it could be like this between us,” Dorothea whispered. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, suddenly looking embarrassed. “I was such a fool to think that passion was all one needed in a marriage.”

  “Well, it was your passion that first intrigued me,” he admitted with a grin. “And that thoroughly delectable first kiss.”

  “Carter!”

  He cupped her face in his hands so he could look deeply into her eyes. “But you also told me that in the very best of circumstances, love comes after marriage. How lucky we are, dearest, to now be in those circumstances.”

  Her eyes turned soft, almost dreamy. “Somehow we managed to find our way into each other’s hearts.”

  “Rather miraculous, is it not?”

  “Yes, all things considered.”

  Her arms closed around his neck and he shifted his position so her head fell easily against his shoulder. Carter felt an almost obscene degree of contentment as he drifted off to sleep, but his mind was not totally at peace. He knew that in the morning, the problem of Major Gregory Roddington would still be with him, haunting and complex. Along with a phenomenal hangover.

  Something was wrong with the duke, Carter decided as he glanced at his father. He had come into the morning room after Carter and Dorothea made their way down for a late breakfast, and joined them at the table. Though they had been living under the same roof, it was the first time the three of them had taken a meal together.

  Beyond inquiring if the nasty business with Roddington had been concluded, the duke contributed nothing to the conversation, despite Dorothea’s attempts to engage him. Instead, he gazed off in the distance, occasionally lifting his silver spoon and stirring it absently in his cup of tea.

  Tea he had requested, but didn’t drink. Because the duke disliked tea.

  His father’s obvious unease could of course be attributed to his distress over the Roddington mess, but Carter felt there was more to this agitation. And it worried him.

  Carter knew his eyes were a trifle bloodshot, in part due to his heavy drinking last night, and he lacked the proper amount of sleep, thanks to several bouts of robust lovemaking with his darling wife, the memory of which brought a genuine, tender smile to his face. But even in this less than stellar condition, Carter could see that something was amiss with his father.

  He caught the eye of the lone footman standing near the sideboard and nodded dismissively. The servant bowed and departed. Free from any prying ears, Carter turned to his father.

  “Was there something you wished to tell me, sir?”

  That brought the duke’s head up. His expression sh
ifted from denial to something startlingly different as he searched his son’s face. “Actually, Carter, there is something.”

  The sound of a chair scraping against the hardwood floor distracted both men.

  “I believe I need to consult with Cook about the evening’s menu,” Dorothea interjected. She rose hastily from her seat, but Carter reached over and clasped her arm.

  “No. I want you to stay. You are my wife. You have every right to hear what my father has to say.”

  For an instant there was a flash of defiance in the duke’s eyes, but it soon faded, dulled by a quiet acceptance. “Carter’s right. Please stay, Dorothea.”

  Dorothea resumed her seat and the duke continued. “I’ve been pondering it all night, trying to determine what Roddington hopes to gain by this nonsense, and I’ve yet to arrive at a sensible conclusion. From all accounts he is an honorable soldier, a man admired by many.”

  “Roddy is doing this, Your Grace, because he believes that you are his father,” Dorothea said softly.

  The duke’s fingers gripped the edge of the dining table. “And what do you believe?”

  “That someone is misinformed as to the truth,” she answered.

  The duke glowered. “Me?”

  Carter reached protectively toward his wife. “Dorothea is not accusing you of anything, sir.” He cleared his throat. “But the question needs to be asked. Is there any possibility this could be true?”

  The faraway look returned to the duke’s eyes. For several ticks of the clock he stared at Carter without any discernable expression on his face.

  “Actually, I did know Emily Roddington,” the duke finally admitted, his voice tinged with its customary sharpness. “We had a very complicated, unique relationship. It began as a friendship. An unlikely one, I’ll grant you, but we were both lonely and unhappy, and misery does love company.

  “She was a sweet woman, well, a girl really. Kind, thoughtful, compassionate.” The edge was gone now, replaced by a wistful tone. “I was going through a difficult time in my life. Your mother and I were at odds over everything, the estates were in poor financial condition, the crops had failed for several years, and there were problems with the investments my father had made. There were days when I felt as though I were drowning beneath all that responsibility. Emily would listen to my difficulties without censure or criticism, would encourage me in my attempts to solve them. She was a good listener, someone who never sought to judge me.”