The Price of Temptation

by Lecia Cornwall

  “Madame Estelle makes the most divine hats. I gave her one or two ideas, of course, to set the trend. In a few weeks everyone will be wearing a bonnet like mine. I haven’t decided if it’s to be known as the Wilton Hat or the Eloisa Bonnet.” She turned to Evelyn, her eyes glowing. “I have decided, however, that yellow shall be the color of the Season. I’ve ordered my entire wardrobe in shades of lemon, cream, champagne, and butter.”

  Evelyn watched Sam’s lips quirk, and she brushed her fingers across her own mouth to still a smile. “Sounds delicious.”

  “Doesn’t it? It was Charlotte’s idea to give the colors delectable names. Every lady with any style at all will be wearing butter and cream this Season. I have ordered the most divine gown for Charlotte’s ball, in custard brocade.” Eloisa looked archly at her sister. “It’s only a fortnight off, and you’ll need a gown too. Mustard, perhaps, with an overskirt of buttermilk . . .”

  Sam grimaced. He stood perfectly still, properly at attention, his hands behind his back, his chin high. Only his face reflected his thoughts as he played with her, mocked her sister. She knew she should have been shocked, but she was enjoying herself. Had she ever admitted that at tea with one of her sisters before?

  Still, she’d have a sharp word with her new footman later, and let him know that decorum was to be strictly—

  “Evie! I’ve asked you twice what you’re going to wear to Charlotte’s ball. It’s important you look your best.”

  Evelyn swallowed. She could wear silk or sackcloth and it would make no difference. She pictured herself walking through Charlotte’s ballroom, followed by a thousand whispers as she pretended not to notice the scornful way eyebrows climbed in horror at her presence, or how a hundred fans snapped open to hide mockery or pity or hatred as she passed.

  “I’ve decided not to attend Charlotte’s ball this year,” she said. “I can’t see why my being there will be of any importance one way or the other.”

  “You must come! People will think you have something to be ashamed of if you stay home!” Eloisa spluttered. “There are at least a dozen people who would stand by you.”

  Evelyn tilted her head. “A dozen? Out of Charlotte’s usual three hundred guests? Hardly encouraging, especially when six of them will be my own family.”

  “Well, better to have six people by your side than no one at all! But that’s why you need the protection of an influential lover, a gentleman with a title, a fortune, and a taste for notorious ladies.” Eloisa smiled. “I will put a word in Wilton’s ear. He is not without influence. Nor is Somerson, or even Frayne. They’re bound to know someone right for you.”

  Was it her imagination, or had Sam looked shocked for a fleeting instant? His expression was bland and unreadable now, and she frowned, wondering if she’d been mistaken. Why would he care?

  “Not Frayne!” Evelyn quipped in mock horror, and laid a dramatic hand on her heart.

  Sam’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch, and a muscle twitched in his jaw in appreciation, and Evelyn felt warmed by it.

  The Earl of Frayne was notorious for his scandalous affairs. It was no wonder Lucy had decided that what was good for the gander would suit her as well.

  And if there ever was a goose, it was Lucy.

  Eloisa didn’t laugh. “Oh, Evie, you must take this seriously! Come to the modiste with me tomorrow. We’ll use my name, and you can wear a veil. They can hardly refuse to serve you if I’m standing behind you. We’ll get Lucy and Charlotte to come with us. The four of us will make a formidable force against insult.”

  “I have a perfectly suitable gown upstairs,” Evelyn said.

  “What color is it?” Eloisa demanded.

  “Green,” Evelyn replied. She glanced at Sam, and his lips spread in a warm smile, as if he approved. Her heart leapt, and she pursed her lips. It didn’t matter one whit what he thought. “Or blue,” she said. His smile faded.

  “No one is wearing green or blue this year!” Eloisa cried. “You will stand out, no, you will stick out! Charlotte and Lucy will be horrified!”

  “Then I shall stay home.”

  “No! No, that won’t do either,” Eloisa said, reversing herself. “You will stick out all the more if you are absent from your own sister’s annual ball! It is one of the most important events of the Season.”

  Evelyn kept her expression flat, letting her sister know how little she cared.

  Eloisa wasn’t deterred. “I’ll make an appointment with my modiste for tomorrow anyway, and my shoemaker.” She stood up and pulled on her gloves. “I’ll come early, and we can take a turn through the park first. You look like you could do with some fresh air.”

  “Not the park!” Evelyn blurted before she could stop herself. Eloisa raised her eyebrows. “I hear it’s going to rain tomorrow. My cook’s elbow aches when the weather is about to change.”

  Eloisa sniffed. “Excuses. I suppose there’s a reason why you cannot visit the modiste either. A plague of locusts on Bond Street, perhaps, predicted by your butler’s bunions.” She turned to go. “I despair of you, Evelyn. I am going to consult with Charlotte, see which suitable gentlemen might be on her guest list.”

  “No one lower than a marquess, or perhaps a prince, if one of them is between mistresses,” Evelyn quipped, meaning to quell her sister. But Eloisa smiled. So did Sam. A lazy, appreciative grin that made her heart take a slow turn in her chest.

  Eloisa pecked Evelyn’s cheek. “That’s the spirit! I shall ask Lucy which prince is currently unattached. She’ll know, if anyone will.”

  “It was a joke,” Evelyn protested, but Sam was opening the door for Eloisa. A yellow feather floated out of her hat as she passed, and he caught it and tucked it into his wig with a roguish grin.

  Evelyn snatched it out again and gave him a look of censure. He followed Eloisa down the hall and let her out.

  Evelyn went to the window to watch her sister get into her coach, newly painted a deep golden yellow. Even her horses had golden coats, and yellow feathers on their heads.

  “You have no reason to avoid the park, my lady.”

  Evelyn turned to find Sam in the doorway.

  “If you wish to go riding, I will escort you, and I promise no harm will come to you.”

  She read the truth of that in his eyes. Deep, soft, gray eyes, trustworthy and stalwart.

  “I—” she began, suddenly finding herself breathless. She straightened at once. “I really must speak to you about your behavior during my sister’s visit,” she began sternly, but he grinned, tying her tongue in a knot.

  “It was good to see you smile.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Still, it was bad of you to mock Viscountess Wilton.”

  His lips thinned in contrition, but failed to dim the light in his eyes.

  “I assume you weren’t serious about Mrs. Cooper’s elbow,” he said, not bothering with an apology. “There isn’t a cloud in the sky. I checked when I let Elo—er, Viscountess Wilton—out.” He pointed to the sunlight pouring through the window to pool at Evelyn’s feet. “You can’t stay inside forever. Your sister is right about that, at least. Don’t hide yourself away, my lady. Step outside. Fight the battle.”

  Evelyn’s heart melted. Her soldier. Her hero. He had kept her safe before, and she so desperately wanted exercise, fresh air, and freedom. He’d promised to keep her safe.

  She believed him.

  “Thank you, Sam. If it will not interfere with your other duties, you will accompany me tomorrow. I’ll have John Coachman pick a suitable horse for you. I assume you ride?”

  “Er, yes, my lady. I was in a cavalry regiment.”

  She imagined him on a horse, sword drawn, charging across a foreign battlefield toward the enemy. Her breath caught in her throat again. He didn’t seem to notice. He was regarding her politely, as if the idea had been hers all along.

  “I will be ready to ride out at six. You may inform Mr. Starling, and see that John Coachman has the horses ready.”

&nbs
p; “Yes, my lady.”

  She caught a glimpse of that rogue’s smile of his, and knew if he stayed any longer, she’d be tempted to smile back.

  “That will be all,” she said stiffly.

  The view from behind, she noted as he walked away, was almost as inspiring as the one from the front. She dropped her gaze at once.

  What had gotten into her? She was every bit as bad as Lucy. But she felt a little of the fear lift from her shoulders. Perhaps a ride in the park would not be so bad after all.

  And with Sam by her side, she’d feel safe again.

  Chapter 8

  Sleepy shadows stretched across the kitchen the next morning when Sinjon glanced at the clock on his way to the stable. He was fifteen minutes early for his appointment with Evelyn Renshaw.

  He corrected himself. Footmen did not make appointments with ladies. They obeyed commands. He grinned. This morning’s ride had been his idea, and his command.

  Not that Evelyn Renshaw was a woman who took orders. If he’d been in a position to wager on it, he’d bet every lady in London would be wearing yellow within a week.

  Except Evelyn.

  He frowned, and wondered if she would find it so easy to resist Eloisa’s plan to find her a lover.

  Sinjon swallowed, and ran a finger under his cravat. Evelyn Renshaw was young, beautiful, and ripe for seduction, and if he could coax a smile from her, a blush, then she wasn’t immune to masculine charm. Her husband had been gone a long time.

  If she took a lover, it wouldn’t be him. Another gentleman would have the pleasure of sharing Evelyn’s bed. He had no idea why that bothered him so much.

  He barely knew the lady, but he recognized beauty, and knew that tightly controlled emotions often hid deep passions. She was an intriguing woman, one he might have taken the chance to seduce himself if the situation had been different and he wasn’t playing her servant.

  Perhaps it wasn’t lust, but his protective inclinations toward damsels in distress. The Earl of Frayne frequented the lowest brothels, attended the most scandalous parties, and there wasn’t an actress in London he hadn’t bedded. He could imagine the type of lover Frayne would suggest for Evelyn. And Frayne’s countess was nearly as bad as her husband. Mothers warned their sons to stay away from Lewd Lucy. His own father had done so with him when he first came to London. Not by name, of course, but she’d been included in the general category of “women of high breeding and low reputation.”

  The Fraynes would probably sell Evelyn’s favors to the highest bidder. His skin crawled, and he shook the sensation off. It wasn’t any of his business. But Evelyn Renshaw needed someone to keep her safe, a man who could protect her from treason, scandal, penury, and dangerous Frenchmen roaming Hyde Park. He’d have to be a gentleman, honorable and upstanding, good with a sword, and with enough fortune to keep her.

  He’d have to be as unlike Philip Renshaw or Frayne as possible.

  Sinjon’s brother William came unbidden to mind. William was handsome, rich, the heir to his father’s earldom, and he had never done a single dishonorable thing in all his life. Or an interesting one. He’d be the perfect man for Evelyn.

  Sinjon felt an irrational surge of jealousy and forced it down. Will was more likely to look down his nose at Evelyn than to accept an invitation to become her protector. William would miss the sparkle of diamonds in a coal heap, since he never saw the potential in anything. Evelyn was a gem, despite the taint of her husband’s treason. It hardly mattered. William was probably tucked away in the country, married to a dull heiress by now, and had likely never heard of the Renshaw scandal. Sinjon let out a long breath, glad Evelyn’s lover wouldn’t be William, at least.

  “Good morning.”

  He turned at the sound of her voice. She was wearing a brown velvet riding habit with a pink silk cravat. She looked fresh, pretty, and vulnerable, someone who would never consider taking men like Frayne or even William to her bed. Sinjon stopped when he realized he’d taken a step toward her and was about to offer his arm like a gentleman. He lowered it, clasped his hands behind his back.

  “You aren’t wearing yellow,” he said, retreating to the safety of teasing her, but she blushed as pink as her scarf. His heart skipped another beat. When was the last time he’d seen a woman blush when he teased her? “Not that you should. Or shouldn’t. It’s just that you look—” He shut his mouth, realizing he was babbling like an idiot.

  She appeared to be waiting for the rest of the description, her eyes fixed on him expectantly, her lips parted. But it wasn’t his place to tell her she looked beautiful.

  The groom appeared, leading the saddled horses, and she turned her attention to mounting. Sinjon cupped his hands for her booted foot and boosted her into the saddle. He caught a flash of trim ankles, a teasing whiff of a subtle perfume, and found himself tempted to sniff her skirt, to identify the tantalizing fragrance.

  He made himself turn away and mount his own horse, his stomach knotted. He glanced at her again. She was arranging her skirts, settling herself on the sidesaddle. She looked up at him, and his heart lurched.

  No, he decided, William definitely wouldn’t do, and he hoped she had the good sense to refuse Frayne too, if her brother-in-law came sniffing around her skirts. He’d find a way, somehow, to protect her from that danger as well. His hands tightened on the reins in frustration. A lady was hardly likely to seek her footman’s advice on love.

  He scanned the street as they rode out of the mews, looking for more pressing threats than eager lovers. Only a chimney sweep, the milk cart, and a sleepy tradesman carrying a heavy box of tools marred the silence of the morning, but Evelyn was nervous. He read it in her shoulders and in the tight grip she had on the reins. Her mare’s ears twitched as she sensed her mistress’s distress. If anyone dared to bid Evelyn good morning or tip his cap to her, she’d probably bolt down the street in a wild panic.

  “Are you armed?” she asked tightly.

  He smiled at her, his grin carefree, confident and reassuring. “I borrowed Mrs. Cooper’s largest kitchen knife, though I’m certain we won’t have need of it. At least I hope not. Cook said she’d whip me if I didn’t return it in the same pristine state it was in when I took it,” he quipped, and watched her shoulders relax a little as she smiled.

  He also had a pistol tucked into small of his back, but he didn’t tell her that. She might smile at the knife, but a gun would probably terrify her.

  She surprised him by making a joke of her own. “Then we shall be careful indeed. I daresay Mrs. Cooper can best even the bravest soldier.”

  He glanced at her sharply, wondering if she’d meant it as a compliment or an insult. She blushed and looked away. “I mean, even the Duke of Wellington himself would be hard-pressed in hand-to-hand combat with Mrs. Cooper.”

  He sent her an appreciative grin.

  “Did you ever see His Grace while you were in Spain?” she asked.

  He’d dined with Wellington and his officers. The great man had spoken briefly to him of horses and the quality of the claret. But privates did not sup with generals, so Private Sam Carr bit his cheek and played his role.

  “Oh, I saw him riding by at a distance a time or two. I cheered him with the rest of the lads,” he told her. Every soldier of any rank cheered when Wellington rode past.

  “And you are content to give up the glory of war for a dull post in London?” she asked, reminding him that he was not a soldier now, but only a servant, and not her equal.

  “War isn’t glorious. It’s bloody and dangerous and a waste of life,” he said, barely remembering to add, “my lady.”

  She lowered her gaze to her hands. “I know a group of ladies, all mothers and wives of officers and common soldiers, who knit and sew for the men fighting abroad. They are desperate to believe that there is glory in it, especially if the worst comes to pass, and their son or husband falls in battle. Glory gives them hope, you see, makes it bearable.”

  He understood. How could he not? Gl
ory came from behaving with honor, even in the most inhuman circumstances. There was shame in the army too, in the accepted practices of flogging, pillaging, and rape, and in allowing brutal and incompetent officers to command good men. Officers like Creighton.

  He wondered what she’d say if she knew his story, his shame. Suddenly it mattered all the more that he prove his innocence. He’d been a good officer, and the role of a subservient footman did not come easily to him. He was polishing boots while other men fought.

  Of course, he couldn’t imagine the elegant Evelyn Renshaw in a sewing circle of soldiers’ wives and mothers either. She would be as out of place there as on a battlefield. Or would she? She had more inner strength and bravery than some of the men he’d commanded. He looked away. He didn’t want to admire her, but it seemed he could do nothing else. It was a foolish game. Inner strength protected deep secrets, and bravery hid fear.

  “What a surprise to see you this morning!”

  Sinjon froze at the sound of Creighton’s voice, every muscle tightening, ready for battle. He reached for the pistol at his back and pressed his horse forward before he realized Creighton wasn’t looking at him.

  He was staring at Evelyn.

  To Sinjon’s astonishment, she was smiling at the blackguard. He stopped where he was, baffled. She looked delighted by the chance meeting, as if she knew Creighton well, and liked him.

  Creighton was smiling back at her, a frightening sight. His eyes roamed over the curves beneath Evelyn’s riding habit, and Sinjon’s gut tightened with indignation. He reached again for the pistol, ready to draw it if he had to, or to grab her reins and get her away from Creighton if he moved to touch her, but she rode forward eagerly, toward the major and away from his protection.

  “Good morning, my lord! It is indeed a pleasant surprise to find you in the park so early.” She was actually flushed with pleasure, Sinjon realized in horror. He must have made some small noise, because she looked back at him briefly and gave an imperious, damning little wave, ordering him to fall back and ride behind as Creighton pulled his stallion alongside her mare.