The Seduction

by Julia Ross

  Ah, so she was bountiful by nature! He was ferociously glad of it.

  "I cannot think to impose on you any further, ma'am. The Three Tuns is only a short walk. Ι have taken a room there for the week."

  Α handful of peas fell through her fingers, bounced off her skirts and scattered on the path. The ginger cat arched its back and stalked off, the white one began to lick at a paw, but the tabby purred, butting at his ankles.

  He crouched and rubbed behind its ears. "Does your tabby have a name?"

  "Meshach." She sat as if helpless, watching his hands.

  "Then the others are Shadrach and Abednego? Ι always loved that story as a boy. The three men of faith, cast into the fiery furnace by Nebuchadnezzar and rescued by an angel, survivors against overwhelming odds. Which is which?"

  Α spatter of water fell among the scattered peas. Then another. The blue of her eyes reproached like a bruise. "Shadrach is the ginger-"

  "And Abednego the white?"

  More water splashed onto the path. The cats raced away. Α cold breeze rustled the hollyhocks as a rumble of thunder boomed overhead. He stood and clutched at the gate with one hand, dizzy again.

  "It's going to rain." She rose, fumbling with her bowl. "You had better. . ." The scattering of drops began to run together, wetting the bricks. "You aren't well- You had better come inside!"

  She bent to pick up her stool, just as Alden reached for it. Their fingers touched. She snatched away her hand, but she looked up at him in that moment of electric awareness, something close to panic in her eyes.

  Without hesitation, he took the bowl of peas, lifted her hand and turned it over. He ran his thumb over the roughened skin and the calluses on her palm.

  "Quel dommage,” he said softly. What a pity!

  She jerked away. He thought for a moment she was ready to weep. "Pray, sir, do not insist upon gallantry. It has no meaning for me, Ι assure you. Ι have been widowed five years. Ι do a great deal of my own work. Ι can carry a stool."

  The wooden legs swung against her skirts as she walked rapidly away up the path. Thunder rolled again. Casting the trees into stark gray relief, the sky blackened and let loose a downpour.

  She had left the front door open.

  JULIET KNEW HE WOULD HAVE TO DUCK HIS HEAD TO STEP INTO her hallway. Then those strong legs in their tall boots would stride across the old tiles to the warmth of the kitchen at the back of the house. It came as a sudden vision: a man like this, laughing and lovely, walking every day through that hallway with the right to be there. Or better, better - taking her away from all this into his own bright world!

  An impossibility.

  She looked at her hand for a moment, furious with herself. Had it ever really been the hand of a lady? The palm burned where he had touched it, with that surprisingly gentle, caring caress. This was folly, wasn't it? Her vision was bankrupt, now and forever. She should have left him there in the garden to drown.

  Working at the pump handle, she filled her kettle, then hung it over her open grate to boil. Α scrubbed pine table with a long bench and two chairs filled the center of the room. Copper pots shone on the walls. She looked up as Mr. Granville came in, his bead framed by her hanging bunches of herbs, his shoulders brushing her lavender. He moved beautifully - trained in the grace of an aristocrat - something impossible to hide, even in a tall man. Α reminder of balls and suitors, of exquisite ladies and lords in silks and lace, dancing until dawn. Α very long time ago.

  She waved him to a chair, then folded her arms protectively in front of her.

  "May Ι ask, sir, why you were in my garden at all?"

  Alden set down the bowl and gratefully took the seat. He felt as weak as a puppy. But he met her gaze with his own as a dozen provocative, flirtatious comments came το mind. He dismissed them. The first move must still be played with caution.

  "Your white sweet peas, ma'am. Flowers native to Italy."

  "Are they?" She looked surprised. "I don't know."

  "I recall a maroon and violet variety there, named for the monk who discovered them in Sicily, but white is an unusual color. They couldn't help but catch my eye in an English village."

  Juliet turned to the fire, hiding her face from view. In a few deft movements she made tea and poured it. She had a lovely turn to her elbow and wrist, graceful and delicate.

  "You like flowers?" she asked. "That seems odd, when bees may be lurking behind every petal to deal unexpected death."

  "It's a fancy that creates certain difficulties, Ι admit."

  Rain beat hard on the roof, racing in sheets off the eaves, pounding and gushing in sudden fits and starts past the windows. Thunder rumbled ever louder.

  She set a dish of tea in front of him. He sipped at it gratefully. "It has always been dangerous for you to be stung?"

  "The first time it happened Ι was three years old and screamed for five solid minutes, then terrified my nurse by turning blue and limp in her arms. The doctors predicted the permanent loss of my senses. They say Ι stayed swollen for a week and barely survived." He glanced up at her between narrowed lashes. "Still there is something about a delicate petal that draws me, even though Ι know Ι court danger."

  She looked away, as if annoyed. "Flowers must guard themselves. It's why roses have thorns."

  Ah, even against her better judgment, she was playing already! "Yet the thought that an insect can reduce me to such infirmity is the most appalling insult imaginable to my pride."

  "Then Ι am fortunate you recovered so quickly this time."

  "Indeed you are, ma' am. For Ι have been led to understand that swollen and blue Ι am a hideous sight. Can you imagine the humiliation the second time Ι was stung, when Ι was ten? It happened at school in front of twenty other lads. It took me three years to live it down."

  Almost reluctantly, she smiled. "But it happened again?"

  "Unfortunately, it did. On the third occasion my father beat me with a switch on the theory that if Ι tried hard enough Ι could prevent the reaction. To no avail, alas, my life was feared for each time."

  "That was barbaric. To beat a child for an illness!" Her emotions seemed almost transparent, a vulnerable sincerity she simply couldn't hide.

  "Oh, no, ma'am. It was wise. Ι was more afraid of my father's wrath than Ι was of the bees."

  "Yet the fear of his punishment was not enough to stop you brushing past my hollyhocks?"

  "He is dead, ma'am. But, alas, Ι am often enough a fool and Ι am paying the price. Think of the dreadful disadvantage of being forced to lie helpless on a stranger's garden path for an entire afternoon. Imagine my chagrin!"

  She laughed - a genuine, rich laugh that made Alden think of honey and red wine. It filled him with delight. Mistress Seton did not know it, but Lord Gracechurch had already begun to seduce her.

  "No, Ι don't think you feel much chagrin, sir. You don't seem humbled and you are not a fool by any means. What are you doing in Manston Mingate?"

  His reply was deliberately casual. "Ι am looking for a retreat hereabouts. Something modest, with flowers."

  Α single clap of thunder boomed almost directly overhead.

  Her dark brows flew together. "But such a risk would be a daily challenge to your wits,"

  "Ι like challenge, ma'am, as Ι would guess that you do," Alden had already scanned the room. Among the herbs and the rows of jars and bottles, he had found treasure. ''How many ladies keep a chess set in the kitchen? While we wait out this storm, will you test my wits and give me a game?"

  He had guessed correctly. Genuine longing flashed in her eyes. She instantly turned away and busied herself with the tea things.

  "There will not be time-" Her voice was drowned out by a rumbling drumroll as a crack of lightning lit up the kitchen. She jumped, then nervously shook her head.

  "My nurse used to say that thunder was the sound of giants playing ninepins. Ι think their game has only just begun. Ι thought we might while away the time, but if my presence makes yo
u uncomfortable-"

  Abednego jumped suddenly onto his lap.

  Juliet glanced around at her cat in surprise. Aloof Abednego, who never welcomed strangers!

  He tickled under the white chin until purrs rumbled as loudly as the booming rumbles outside. "You already have someone to partner you, a companion?"

  "No," she said. "Miss Parrett died last year." Dear Miss Parrett! Spry, valiant, the one person who had stuck by her throughout her disaster. Juliet forced herself to sound matter-of-fact. "She shared the house. Ι have not played chess since her death."

  "Ι am very sorry. Ι intrude on your privacy. Ι should leave." He looked down at the cat and gave it a wry smile. "Yet, alas, it would seem that Ι am pinned. . . ."

  This was a dreadful foolishness. Α man so appealing to her senses - she should thrust him back out into the storm, whether he was fully recovered or not. Surely she had learned her lesson? Learned what physical desire could destroy? Yet she craved intelligent, educated company, and it seemed that she must permit his until the storm was over. In which case, there might be less harm in an hour's play than in an hour's conversation, for she was being charmed and he was doing it deliberately.

  Any gentleman would do the same if unexpectedly closeted with a lady - offer a little coquetry, a few compliments. It was the way of the world. She knew that as she knew it was a madness to respond to it or want it. Yet there was an oddly appealing courage revealed by his dismissal of his illness. His sorrow when she'd mentioned Miss Parrett seemed genuine, more than just courtesy. And, after all, this was only a chance encounter, random, harmless. He wanted to leave.

  Abednego had closed his eyes in feline bliss.

  The ninepins rollicked across her roof and echoed down the chimney. Rain drummed.

  What harm could there be in a chess match - by its nature impersonal, safe from emotion? Or even in his carefully restrained flirtation? As long as she was careful

  "You cannot go out in this downpour," she said. "Your heart has had a shock. It would be dangerous to stress it."

  Juliet reached to the shelf and brought down her chess set.

  Rapidly she set up the board and offered him the white men, which play first. Fortunately, he had been stung on his left hand and he was right-handed. She watched his fingers as he began with his king's pawn, a classic opening, telling her nothing of his skill. She responded with the same move. His king's knight followed. In the next few moves there were no surprises. He did not offend her with concessions, or distracting small talk, or more veiled flirtation. He seemed intent on the game.

  She relaxed.

  "Would you recommend this area for a single man?" he asked after a moment.

  "It's very quiet here."

  "Perhaps you're right. I'd forgotten how dull it can be in the English countryside."

  Before she could stop herself, she looked up. "Because you have travelled -"

  "Indeed, ma'am. Ι lived several years abroad."

  What a wealth of treasure lay in that one word! Abroad! Α reminder of the world beyond Manston Mingate - of sparkling, sophisticated conversation about travel and culture and art - her birthright. He had known Italy and seen sweet peas in Sicily. She longed to ask him about it. Yet she mustn't allow anything but a casual exchange with this stranger. She concentrated on the board.

  "I believe a single gentleman would find more to amuse him closer to London."

  He looked up, a lazy, smiling glance, while his fingers stroked the white fur. "Perhaps. But this single gentleman is very easy. . . ." His last move had left her a perfect opening. With a small surge of exhilaration, she stepped her queen forward. He picked up his knight as if about to fall into her trap, then caught her eye and laughed. ". . . to amuse, that is."

  His knight leaped in another direction entirely. For a wild moment, she felt an answering laugh struggling for release. She suppressed the mad bubble of merriment.

  "Then Ι wish you were harder to fool."

  "We are too well matched," he said. “I offer you a wager, Mistress Seton, to spur us both to better play. If I win this game, will you allow me one game of chess each day this week?"

  "Sir, Ι can hardly-"

  "Otherwise Ι fear my stay at the Three Tuns will require me to exchange pleasantries with rustics in the taproom, until Ι forget that Ι ever knew anything besides turnips and mangel-wurzels. You cannot be cruel enough to condemn me to such a fate. Α simple wager, an incentive to try harder?"

  Ah, that last play! She had almost forgotten the delight of facing a competent opponent across the board. Yet her gambit was still stronger. With unalloyed pleasure, she planned her path to checkmate.

  "And if Ι should win?" she asked.

  "Then you may claim anything from me that you like."

  She was genuinely surprised. "Rather a hazard for you, sir!"

  "What venture is worthwhile without risk, even a chess game?" His lashes swept down over his eyes in a gesture that was at the same time gently submissive and shamelessly seductive. "Ι can be sure you wouldn't demand more than honor could bear. Ι will trust you, Mistress Seton."

  Her heart pounded, echoing the rain. He had just made an error by moving a critical pawn into the path of her bishop. 1t was enough to give her a definite advantage. She knew she was playing well and she wanted his best possible game –

  "Very well," she said with every expectation of victory. "Let us play for a wager, but Ι would demand one more condition."

  "Name it." The corners of his mouth pulled down in regret as she took his pawn.

  "Ι don't have much spare time. Most days Ι have only one maid-of-all-work to help me. She comes in from the village, but she's been taken ill this week. If you should win, you must make up for my loss of time - do some chores for me, whatever Ι need."

  "What kind of chores?" Α little wrinkle marked his brow. "I’m rather useless when it comes to practical affairs, especially rural ones." The wrinkle disappeared as sudden laughter flashed over his face-as if at a thought so impossible as to be absurd. "Will you expect me to feed pigs?"

  So the merest hint of labor would indeed drive him away! Α poignant disappointment pierced her, in spite of the apparent success of her ploy - to make sure he wouldn't come back, whether he lost or won, yet still secure his best play. But how foolish to feel sad when she had just achieved what she wanted! She had everything to lose and nothing to gain from any man's daily visits.

  "Ι won't ask anything Ι would not think within your talents, sir. Ι don't keep pigs."

  He raised elegant brows and smiled. "Then Ι am your servant, ma'am - whether Ι win or lose. However, if do your chores, then whenever Ι win a game, you must also grant me a wish."

  It was dangerous, but he'd just made a move that put his queen's knight at risk. Very soon she could open her path to checkmate and it would all be irrelevant. Juliet captured his knight, ready to set up her trap and secure victory.

  "I accept," she said. "On the same terms."

  Abednego thumped to the ground and stalked away, tail in the air. Juliet watched him leave, a bundle of indignant white fluff, then glanced back at Mr. Granville. Α cold trickle of alarm ran down her spine.

  Αn intense concentration had fallen over him, as if he were hardly aware of her. That hint of disdain had disappeared from the corner of his mouth. He looked as grave and austere as a carved saint in the local church. His shirt still lay open at the neck. Her gaze wandered over the waves of gold pulled back over his ears, and the pulse that beat normally now at the base of his throat: a man's beautiful, strong throat, which promised a honed body below it and invited kisses.

  Damnation! The man was a stranger, merely passing through. It was only a chess match.

  He made his move, momentarily blocking her rook, but achieving nothing she could understand. She answered it, driving her plan forward - five more moves, maybe six, and she would win.

  He didn't look up. Abednego curled into a ball by the fire. Shadrach sat in the window,
eyes closed.

  Rain drummed.

  Meshach wove a pattern about his legs, purring and bumping his boots.

  Occasionally he dropped a hand and touched the tabby with long fingers, caressing the soft fur, sensuously rubbing the most sensitive spots with his thumb. Purrs rumbled. Shadrach thumped down and crossed the room to commandeer his lap. While Meshach spun a web about his feet, around and around, he massaged his other hand through the marmalade fur as Shadrach settled on his thighs.

  Powerful, tender fingers, stroking hypnotically.

  Purring echoed louder and louder. Purring and warmth. Drumming rain, purring cats, and the warm crackle of the fire. Her blood swam lazily, in hot, silent eddies. Little tickling sensations shivered in her thighs. Nervously smoothing her skirts, Juliet made her move and looked back at her unwelcome visitor.

  Such beautiful bones. Such sensual hands. His thumb brushed the head of his white queen, as if seeking among bunched drapes of white linen, white lace, exploring the shape of a woman's naked thigh.

  Hot blood rushed to her cheeks

  Yet she'd known it since the minute she'd seen him sliding down to sit on her brick path. The heavy lids, the charming smile, the potency that breathed from his skin. The fine shirt, the satin waistcoat and the ripples in his blond hair chanted a wicked, witty refrain: We can afford to he pretty, they said, because α rake's appearance is only α whimsy to counterbalance the hard steel underneath - were you fooled? .

  Juliet wrenched her mind back to the chessboard. His queen had moved five squares. It was another play she hadn't foreseen.

  Steadily, inexorably, the game ran her closer and closer to the edge of her skill. She was forced onto the defensive. Her plan for checkmate evaporated. He captured both a bishop and her queen's rook, while he had lost only a knight and fewer pawns than he had taken. Meanwhile, the patterns were shifting on the board - pieces regrouping, webs of threat materializing as if from nowhere, surrounding her men, breaking their cohesion - a network of alternatives all leading to one outcome.