The Seduction of Sebastian St. James

by Rachel Van Dyken

  The man looked between the two, anger behind his eyes. “Are you trying to cause more scandal, Emma? Have you not shamed our family enough?”

  Perfect, Sebastian thought. “Lord Gates, if you would be so kind in the future to keep your insults about my wife to yourself, it would be greatly appreciated.”

  The man’s face fell and he began to stutter, “Your grace, I—“

  “Allow me to introduce to you the new Duchess of Tempest.” At that, Emma must have found herself, for she gave a low curtsy.

  “Shall we be off, my love? You did promise me a dance, did you not?” he announced loud enough for both parents to hear. “What do you say? Dance with your husband? I know the dowager duchess would be pleased.”

  Although Emma’s eyes held some concern and pain, he knew it was just the beginning, for he hoped with this one dance he would change it all.

  All things considering, hadn’t it started with one dance?

  Slowly, her head nodded. It was all he needed, and he led her on the floor. As the music began to play, the people around him faded into the background. His eyes only on Emma, his beautiful wife. He realized again, just what his parents had. It wasn’t about reputations. Love. Love was the reason men made complete fools of themselves, the reason women became ruined.

  Although he couldn’t bring his parents back, he could honor their memory by honoring what they’d shared.

  Emma twirled around him, setting his blood on fire. The way her hips swayed led his thoughts astray. Just how would she look doing the dance of the gypsies? Ever since she had spoken of her downfall, he’d been curious. Just what did gypsies do with their hips that held men in such a trance?

  So, in a moment of brashness, he whispered the question in her ear, nearly sending her to stumble.

  Laughing, she leaned in ever so scandalously and whispered, “Shall we go find out?”

  He threw his head back and laughed, knowing full well that laughing out loud in the middle of a dance was considered quite vulgar and not at all proper, especially considering he was doing so with his wife. Then, as he felt the curious stares of those around him, he leaned in and kissed his bride, causing the most scandal anyone had seen from the angel duke in his entire lifetime.

  The music stopped.

  The kissing continued.

  Emma wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. He hadn’t a care for the world, or that he was successfully ruining his own reputation in the process. Even though they were married, it simply wasn’t to be done.

  Emma jerked away, cheeks blushing. “You’ve just ruined your reputation, you know.”

  “Shall we continue to ruin it and shock everyone?”

  It was her turn to laugh.

  And then a loud voice that sounded strangely like his grandmother’s announced, “Please welcome into our family the Duchess of Tempest, formerly known as Miss Emma Gates.”

  Amidst gasps, Sebastian lifted his head to see his grandmother, the now dowager duchess smiling brightly. And then she clapped. One by one, people followed until the entire room erupted into applause.

  Including Emma’s shocked parents.

  Yes, this would be a night to remember. The night the Duke of Tempest was successfully seduced by Lady Emma Gates.

  Epilogue

  “Ruined. I can’t believe it.” Emma continued to stare at the Morning Post, willing it to change what was so painfully obvious in black and white print. “Rawlings is ruined.”

  “How?” Sebastian asked as he gently laid his hand on Emma’s.

  “Too many debtors. Naturally it’s in the gossip column of Mrs. Peabody, but most of what she says is based on actual fact.”

  Sebastian nodded sympathetically. “There is nothing we can do for him, love.”

  “I know.”

  Feeling worried and still a bit guilty that he had known of Rawlings’ trouble for over a month, Sebastian tried to reason with his conscience. There was nothing he could do to help him. Rawlings was too proud to accept money and their friendship was still too fragile.

  He only hoped his old friend wouldn’t do anything rash or stupid. Rawlings, although pleased that Sebastian and Emma had found love, was still engaging in gambling. Most likely trying his luck at winning money so he wouldn’t go to debtor’s prison.

  Though somewhat selfish, Sebastian realized he had more important things to worry about, like the announcement that his wife was with child.

  “How’s the baby?”

  “We can’t be sure for another few weeks! Stop jinxing me!” Emma swatted him. But he knew.

  “I love you,” he whispered into her hair.

  “And I you, now help me get ready for the ball.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No,” Sebastian mumbled under his breath. Impossible to deny his bride anything, lest she threaten to stop dancing her little gypsy dances for him at night. “Tell me again why we are having this ball?”

  Ignoring his whining tone, Emma proceeded to check the decorations that had been set out. “Because as the Duke and Duchess of Tempest it is our duty to invite the ton to our annual party.”

  “Even the ones who gave you the cut direct?” Sebastian asked, not surprised at all if his wife also extended the invitation to Rawlings.

  “Yes.”

  “And your parents?” he asked.

  “We shall invite everyone.” Smiling, she kissed him on the cheek. “Now, stop questioning and help.”

  “On one condition,” he said, gathering her into his arms.

  Emma kicked and laughed as she tried to free herself. “What’s that?”

  “Seduce me.”

  “Right now?”

  “Preferably.”

  Emma rolled her eyes then kissed him. Ah, to be seduced by one’s wife. The best of life’s pleasures. Laughing, he pulled her into the study and closed the door. “And if you feel like dancing at any time, please don’t let me stop you.”

  At that, his beautiful Emma laughed, and then, she danced.

  Renwick House Book 3

  The Redemption of Lord Rawlings

  Chapter One

  London, England

  Rain poured in sheets. All of London seemed to have gone indoors while the storm passed—all except Phillip Crawford, eighth Earl of Rawlings. His good sense told him it was childish and stupid to walk around in the rain but he couldn’t seem to help himself. After all, it might just be the last walk he would take as a free man.

  Debtor’s prison was his only future. Either that or somehow find a bride who was willing to take on his extravagant debt by marrying him, therefore giving release from the contract given by his arrogant father. At this point prison seemed the more likely choice.

  Rawlings had never been a bad investor, had he any money to invest in the first place. His gambling was out of sheer desperation. He needed money and he needed it fast.

  At an all time low, he had decided nothing would make him feel better about his lot in life than sitting in the rain and staring at his shoes, which two hours later is exactly what he’d ended up doing.

  All alone in Hyde Park, he watched as the raindrops fell slowly and rhythmically on his hessian boots. Drip, drip, drip in rapid succession until he thought he was going mad; he watched.

  Closing his eyes, he tried to remember the smell of the rain, the feel of it on his face as it splashed and rolled across his cheeks down his lips.

  The outdoors, he would miss it, he would miss a great many things, but debts must be paid. After all, what did he have to live for?

  “Rawlings? Lord Rawlings?” A sweet voice called to him like a siren to Odysseus. “Is that you, my lord?”

  He opened one eye and then two. Standing before him was a nymph from the sea. It had to be – nobody in his acquaintance possessed such deeply green eyes or shimmering white hair.

  Had he died? Had God struck him with lightning without his knowledge?

  “Yes.” He cleared his throat and wai
ted.

  The look on the girl’s face would have given a monk an apoplexy. So full of joy, warmth, and hope. He was half-tempted to turn around just to see if she was actually talking to him or someone else entirely. But she had said his name – his name. How in the blazes did she know him?

  But before any of those questions could form, she was in front of him and leaning down. “Forgive me.” The last words she said before her lips brushed across his.

  About the Author

  Rachel loves to read almost as much as she loves to write. She resides in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and her dog Sir Winston Churchill. Although she loves to write contemporary romance, her heart will always be with historical and regency romances. Glittering balls and dangerous rakes hold her captivated like chocolate and Starbucks. You can follow Rachel’s adventures on her blog, Twitter, or Facebook.

  Also by Rachel Van Dyken:

  “It’s a girl, my lady! A fine girl!” the midwife exclaimed, holding out the small bundle in her hands. It seemed nearly impossible she had given birth to such a small and perfect little gift. Obviously, the midwife wanted her to take possession of the child she had laboriously brought into the world.

  Without thought, she pulled the bundle to her chest and wept. The salty tears slipped down her cheeks as she mourned all the love that would be lost on her new baby and all the reasons she couldn’t keep her.

  “Take her away from me!” Her shriek seemed to bounce off the bare walls of the room.

  Hiding her face in her hands, she continued to weep, knowing the situation was completely hopeless. Her aristocratic parents wouldn’t allow the scandal. She knew the only answer lay in giving the child away to distant relatives. If the ton were to discover why she had been sent into hiding, she would be ruined.

  The father of the child wanted nothing to do with the baby, even if she did. Hopefully she could convince him to marry her when she went back into London; the season would be starting soon. She closed her heavy eyes and prayed the feeling of loss would leave her.

  But it didn’t. There was no way to escape the choices she had made, except to move on with life, and hope the Duke would still find her attractive after a twenty-four hour childbirth. He hadn’t even contacted her—had he even cared for her health at all?

  Although young, she wasn’t stupid. He was probably out getting foxed with his friends, while she went through the worst pain imaginable.

  It was better this way. Better the infant girl remain in the country. Better she be raised far away from society.

  “Her name, miss?” The maid urged softly, looking at her with expectant eyes.

  “Sara,” she whispered. “Her name is Sara.”

  Chapter One

  The English Countryside

  Miss Sara Ames had no desire whatsoever to extend a greeting to her Aunt Tilda. Greetings were natural assumptions of welcome, and Sara did not want her aunt to get the wrong impression. She was most certainly not welcome.

  Soon enough she would be encouraged to extend said welcome to her aunt, but naturally, she was in no mood to rush the first step into the inferno, as she so delicately thought of the situation. No. She would greet her soon, but not too soon. Not until the time was forced upon her—much like the current situation had been thrust upon her.

  At least she could spend these last few hours in solitary lamentation, mourning the life she once dreamed for herself. A life filled with nights sitting by the fireside reading novels. After all, she wasn’t pretty enough for a debut, a fact of which she was reminded daily by her sisters and her mother.

  Debuts were reserved for comely, dewy-skinned girls; not ugly girls, as her father had often so delicately put it. She hadn’t even been provided with a dowry. And according to her father, the main reason for that being, “No man in his right mind would take you, even if I offered him the blunt of the ton.” He’d repeated such sentiments to neighbors on many occasions as well, the first time on Sara’s sixteenth birthday, when during the middle of her party he drunkenly announced to all her friends she was worthless..

  At least novels provided the escape she desperately needed, a diversion into a world where she felt loved, cherished, and desired—the most scandalous of all the emotions, or so she thought.

  Men would never desire her; even her own father despised her for how she looked.

  For one thing, she was straight where all the other women had curves. Her skin was dark olive, but that was to be expected when one spent hours contemplating books in the fields. Her lips were too large, her eyes too big, and her nose—well, she didn’t know much about noses, but she figured something had to be wrong with it, too. It always seemed too invisible next to her lush mouth, which her father had often called sinful.

  How was it that her sisters were both gifted with angelic faces and soft bodies, while she was cursed with a hard-muscled body and a long mop of black hair? She was nearly convinced her mother had taken a lover of some sort, or at least had an affair while her father was away on business. It was the only explanation for her looks; certainly, her own father must have thought as much as well, because she received the most despised spankings as a child, and allotted the most horrid of all chores.

  Her parents meant well, her beautifully gifted sisters often told her, but she had her doubts. As of a few days ago, she accepted her lot in life was to be a spinster; to spend the rest of her days longing for something she’d never had to begin with…love.

  “Sara!” Her mother’s impossibly loud voice never ceased to carry for miles on end.

  “Coming!” she called, although not at the same decibel. It was nearly impossible to reach the same frequency as her mother on any given occasion. A gift is what her mother called it, but her father called it a curse behind her mother’s back.

  Sara reluctantly pushed herself off the ground and walked slowly into the lion’s den. Her fate to be decided by the two most unlikeable people in her existence: her mother and her aunt.

  Both eyed her speculatively when she approached them in the garden. Heat encompassed her body while observing her aunt’s disapproving gaze trace her from head to toe. She was used to being criticized. Holding her head high when subjected to rejection had once been a trying chore. Now she did it with ease, her only recourse, as if to say she didn’t care what everyone else thought. Though in her heart of hearts, she always did. Didn’t every girl?

  She resolved to always maintain eye contact—to communicate to everyone within distance she accepted the way God created her. The local vicar once told her there were worse things in the world, and sometimes you only see what others want you to see.

  Sara had her doubts about the local vicar after that day, yet her faith in God was the only solid thing in her life. She had to trust that possibly, when she went to Heaven, she would turn into a beautiful butterfly, whilst her family rotted in….

  “Oh, dear,” her aunt sighed, lifting the teacup to her thin rouged lips. “I just don’t see what you expect me to do. I can’t perform miracles.” Her eyes skimmed quickly over Sara; although, she noticed Aunt Tilda seemed to harbor some tender emotion in them, for she ventured a gentle smile her way before facing Sara’s dreadful mother again. Either that or Sara was losing her mind, which was probably more likely, given the circumstances of her upbringing. One could only tolerate so much verbal abuse before she went to the madhouse, or so she thought.

  “Only the good Lord can,” Mother responded, making a quick cross over her chest. Sara rolled her eyes but was quick about it, so she would not be caught. “After her sisters ran off and eloped, I thought to myself we would be ruined. Absolutely ruined. Then I realized I still had one daughter left. One daughter left who can at least try to marry above her station. And why not? Why shouldn’t we have more wealth than what we have? I don’t see why the good Lord would bless others and completely turn his nose up to us.”

  “Nor do I,” her aunt agreed, clicking her tongue and then heaved a sigh of resignation. “I shall
do as you ask… out of the goodness of my heart.” She rose from her chair and approached Sara, making Sara’s mouth go suddenly dry. “My husband is a Viscount. Unlike your mother, I married within my station, and it suits me well. I shall sponsor your first and only season in London. I shall expect nothing but good manners and graciousness from you. Do you understand, young lady?”

  What was she supposed to do? Sit there and nod like a puppet? Sara cleared her throat to protest, but her aunt put a gloved finger in front of her lips.

  “Tsk, tsk. You will not be speaking at all until we arrive in London. I have a head ailment which prevents me from listening to whiny, ugly girls for extended periods of time.”

  Sara was tired of being insulted. She should be accustomed to it though; it was a daily occurrence, but now it rattled her nerves.

  Aunt Tilda shook her head once more. “I don’t know, I just don’t know. I mean, look at her skin. It’s so, so—” Her hand waved in the air as if she would somehow pull the perfect word out of the sky.

  “It’s brown, dear,” came Mother’s annoyed voice. “She has straight white teeth though.”

  “Ah! Let me see!” Aunt Tilda grabbed Saras chin and forced open her mouth making her feel like a horse being inspected by a famer. “Oh, yes. I do see. Oh good, very good. We shall have her smile often.”

  “And her bosom!” Mother half-jumped out of her seat in a frenzy. “If you’ll just pull back her dress here.” The dress tightened around Sara’s chest furthering her embarrassment. “You see? She really does have a lot to work with.”

  Aunt Tilda walked away for a minute, not facing any of the party in the receiving room. “She’ll have to eat much more than you’ve been feeding her.”

  Sara took another deep breath; it was like getting sold to the butcher. She closed her eyes, so she could think about her latest book rather than the embarrassing things being said about her.