The Viscount's Seduction: A Regency Romance (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 2)

by Alina K. Field

  He paused and the air crackled.

  “As you know,” he said.

  His gaze held hers, as dark as the night when she’d caught him peering through the slats of Pooka’s stall.

  “Horses,” she said stupidly.

  He nodded. “Very fine horses. Even some with Connemara blood. And I try to be very good at managing our other investments, since horses are a costly indulgence.”

  And didn’t she know that?

  His thumb stroked the side of her knee. She clamped her hand over his.

  “Where…where is our best Connemara mare? Is she…is she…”

  He frowned. “She’s in Kent.”

  “Pooka?”

  His face went blank, as if he was hiding something. “Yes.”

  His family home was in the north, Lady Jane had said.

  “You sold her?” she gasped.

  He shook his head. “I have a small estate in Kent. We moved her because—well, we simply moved her.”

  Because Pooka was trouble, and didn’t she know it?

  A wave of sadness washed over her. She could have worked with the mare. She could have helped her. Pooka had not had a chance to get better. “Did you…did you get any foals from her?”

  “Yes. A few.”

  She thought of the sprightly horse trying to shake off the boy in the street. “Your gelding?”

  “Yes. He’s one of them. None of them are as ill-natured as their dam.”

  Anger flared in her. “And so why buy her? Why were you so keen on her?”

  His eyes sparkled and he leaned in close enough for her to see a small scar on his jaw. “It was my mother’s wish that I buy the mare whose granddam had won a first at Thurles.”

  Oh, that sly word-for-word remembrance spiked her temper higher. All of the grief of that day roared in her.

  She gritted her teeth and forced down the feelings. “Was she happy, your mother, with her ill-natured purchase?”

  A shadow passed over him as he backed away. “She died before she got to see your hobgoblin horse.”

  She shivered. There’d been nothing but trouble since Pooka had appeared in her mam’s belly. Jamie’s disappearance, her mother’s death from striking her head, her father’s death from the whiskey.

  “How did your mother die?” she asked.

  “A coaching accident.”

  She’d seen one or two mishaps on the rutted roads at home, though none bad enough to take a life. “I’m sorry.” She squeezed his hand.

  She daren’t ask more, not now. Lady Shaldon was long dead, but the pain of her passing still worked in this man. And though Pooka had taken to him that long ago time at Glenmorrow, his distaste for the mare was clear. He blamed her for his mother’s ill luck, dying too young.

  A curse on that name Pooka—why had she picked it?

  His gaze met hers and she could see he’d steadied himself, while she was still all jumbled up inside. A bloodless Englishman, he was—horses were a business for him, not a passion. Not his life. He was boring, he’d said, a boring man with his hand on her knee and eyes beginning to glow like dark coals.

  Her face picked up the warmth. She was still gripping that firm, strong hand. “I am sorry for your loss, my lord. And now it’s best you get to your point today, sir.”

  His mood shifted again, and he grinned, knocking her off balance. “You’re so lovely when you’re heated, whether from a brisk walk or an angry dispute, or a passionate touch.”

  She leaned away from his lips and encountered the back of the chair. With no further escape, she was trapped.

  His kiss was a chaste peck.

  He wanted more though, that she could see. His eyes fixed on her lips, his breathing quickening, and fear raced through her.

  Or—was it excitement? Oh, aye, hadn’t she been here before with her cousin? It had felt nothing like this, which made it twice the danger.

  She glanced over her shoulder. She could clout him with a bowl, but the lovely bone china would just shatter on his thick skull. The only knife was on his side of the table. He’d left her armed with naught but a spoon.

  “Lady Sirena.” His sharp tone brought her round. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a box too small for anything but...

  Oh. Her heart quaked and her body tingled as if all of her insides were dancing. A shimmering sapphire stone twinkled up from its place on a band of gold.

  “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  The room filled with a bleating of noise, like the swarming of bagpipes when all the pipers had drunk too much.

  Chapter 11

  No. No, of course she could not be his wife. She lifted her gaze and saw a glint of—uncertainty, yes. It had clouded out the desire, well, mostly it had, because there was still that bit of tension around his mouth like he was wanting to take a big bite out of her.

  And if he was uncertain and desiring, then he’d want his wedding night now and he’d change his mind in the morning, and then she’d be one more girl for the houses in St. James’s. Nor would she find her brother if she was having to spend all her time flat on her back.

  But…if he was true, if they were to marry, she’d have access to that great house over near Berkeley Square. She could even tell the great lord what she really thought of him.

  And yes, wouldn’t that make you welcome in the family, girl?

  “It is customary in these circumstances to say yes.” The wee bit of irritation made his eyes flash, as they seldom did with these great bored lords. Bakeley had some spark in him. And strength, yes, especially in the hand that had started stroking her leg through her skirts. He might be an honest fellow, too, not making any pretense of his amorous intentions.

  Or he might be dishonest. He might just be a craftier seducer than her cousin had been. He might still change his mind in the morning.

  “Sirena,” he said.

  His hands paused and his gaze pinned her.

  He was…earnest. Determined. He wanted an answer, this English lord whom she knew nothing about. Practical and boring. And English. How could they possibly suit?

  She swallowed hard. The simple answer was, Lady Jane was correct—they wouldn’t. He belonged with a rich, noble, English girl, a girl with good blood lines. A girl with a father who could force him to marry her after he’d tupped her.

  “It’s a mad idea.” Her voice shook with the quiver that ran up one leg and converged at the spot where it and the other leg met.

  Get hold of yourself, Sirena.

  If she but had a horse in the room, she might be able to whisper up some calm.

  “No,” he said, “It’s very logical.”

  “It’s mad and rash. Your father would have an apoplexy, the ton would laugh at you, and in six months you’d be seeking an annulment.”

  A smile drove out the uncertainty in his eyes, but not the heat, which still lingered around those turned up lips. “You are trying to dash my hopes.” He set the jewel box on the table, slipped her shoe off and began to massage her foot, one-handed. His other moved to her hip.

  “And you are trying to—” She inhaled sharply at the burst of sensation. “To seduce me with your wicked hands.”

  “Wait until I employ my wicked tongue.”

  Heat raced through her. Pictures danced in her head, making her dizzy. “Lord Bakeley—”

  “Why not call me James?”

  Her breath left her in a loud whoosh. It was a moment before she could speak. “Is that truly your name?”

  The stroking stopped. “Yes, Sirena. What’s wrong?”

  She directed her gaze to the fireplace. To the door, to the table with its fine linens and china. Anywhere than at that searching gaze. It was too tempting to want to fall in.

  “It’s my brother’s name. The name we knew him by.”

  “Your brother who was lost with the ship that foundered.”

  “You knew?”

  “Would I propose to a girl without knowing everything I could?”


  “You found your father’s files?”

  “No. The little I know of you, I learned from my brother, Bink. I still haven’t found any files. Perhaps when we marry we’ll just go and ask him to show us them.”

  She pushed back her chair and stood, grasping his hands. “Get up before you wear out the knees of your breeches.”

  That coaxed another smile from him, though she wasn’t sure it was any less wicked.

  “If my father thinks to cut us off, well, I have a great fortune of my own, Sirena, sufficient for us to live here when we are in the city, and I have that property in Kent when you wish to spend time in the country.”

  His hands had found her shoulders and he was touching her again, sending ripples of warmth through her.

  “I can bring nothing to a marriage. Not even a meager dowry. It is not right.”

  “It’s not true, either. You can bring your person, your beauty, your wit. Your ability with horses. And, I would hope, your affection and your loyalty.”

  Loyalty? Ah, then, they were in grand trouble, for she could never bring herself to love the English, considering all they’d taken from her. “I shall always be a daughter of Ireland.”

  He turned her squarely facing him. “I’m talking about loyalty to me, to the children we’ll have, to our family, Sirena. I know you’re capable of it. I’ve seen how you are with Lady Jane.”

  “Loyalty to your father?”

  His eyes glimmered with the same bright desire. “Can you not see the opportunity here? You want to know things, am I correct?”

  Arrgh. He’d changed tactics. He was a wily one—no wonder he was rich.

  “That’s why you were down at the docks today. You want to know what happened to your brother. You want to know if he’s alive.”

  Her mouth dropped open and her heart bashed against her ribs. How could he know this?

  He pulled her close, wrapping her in his arms, in a cocoon that quaked with safety, and warmth and desire. She could smell soap and starch, leather and horses, and the musk of a man at the end of his day.

  Her arms went around his waist—there was nowhere else for them. He had yanked her up, pressed her breasts to where they wanted to go against his coats, her cheek to the smooth wool of his shoulder. Ah, she could fall into this and perhaps never have to worry again.

  “When I saw you today with that knife to that villain’s throat...Sirena, you must promise me to not set out on your own like that. If your two men had been less stalwart, if you had been alone, I could not bear to think what might have happened.” His grip tightened a fraction more. “It may seem like madness to you, but I’ve thought this through. I’ll get a special license tomorrow and we’ll be married immediately. I’ll draw up a settlement for you and our children, should anything happen to me.”

  Fear tightened her embrace. To marry and lose Bakeley, another James, oh no, she could not bear the thought.

  And what madness was it that she could care at all?

  Perhaps she already did feel affection for him. And perhaps he was worthy of loyalty. And the chance to have children, and to have the means to care for them properly...

  A trembling overtook her, and she grasped for a bit of sanity. “You’ve thought this through, you say. Tell me, what exactly did you argue with yourself? Because other than my fair person, I still cannot see an advantage to you.”

  “Your fair person weighs heavily in the measure.”

  He was not going to be honest. She eased herself away. “Fair maidens abound here in London, offering a much better bargain. Proper girls who won’t run the streets without your leave. You can get an heir from any one of them.”

  “What did I argue? That you’re beautiful, Sirena, and no doubt brave. And not without good sense. Today you took along your two men and armed yourself.” His mouth firmed. “Would you have cut that man’s throat, Sirena?”

  The memory of that moment whooshed back upon her. “I...I think so. I don’t know. I couldn’t let him kill Josh. I was glad I didn’t have to.”

  He touched her shoulders again. “My father is pressuring me to marry, but I’ll be damned if my wife will be chosen for me. It’s you I want. And for your part, you’ll be provided for, and you’ll have a husband who chose you.”

  Those were no small advantages, providing he chose her for the right reasons. She took a step back and stared up at him.

  “And so, you’re marrying me to get an heir and to spite Shaldon?”

  His gaze skidded away, and her heart fell.

  Yet…the honesty was strangely reassuring.

  “’Tis a foolish reason for marrying a girl you only just met. A girl you don’t truly know,” she said, voice shaking.

  “And ’tis a fact that I met you ten years ago.”

  She couldn’t stop the snort that escaped her. “Properly introduced through the slat of a stall, with a hobgoblin horse for a chaperone. Whatever do you call Pooka now?”

  “She’s still Glenmorrow’s Pooka,” he said. “If you marry me, we’ll train her to a sidesaddle and she’ll be yours.”

  “Oh.” Tears clouded her vision and she ducked her head. “So I’ll marry for a horse, and you’ll marry for spite.”

  And in truth, there’d be some spite against Shaldon in it for her also.

  “And the kissing,” he said.

  And the kissing would lead to bed sport, and she was more than a little nervous about that.

  She eased in a breath, quelling that fear. Mares were covered by the pedigreed stallion whether they liked it or not, and it was much the same for the aristocracy. One could endure for the chance of a foal.

  “Will not Lord Shaldon wrap me up and toss me down a well?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of him?”

  Was she? She shook her head. “For myself, no, but I do worry about the boys. And…if he discovers me trying to muck up his blood lines, he’ll stop any nuptials.” And then she would be well and truly ruined.

  He slid a finger under her chin and tipped it up. “My brother will see to your men’s safety. I’ll see to the marriage.”

  His touch sent warmth slithering through her. She took in a shaky breath. “You’ll help me find out if my brother is alive?”

  “Yes.”

  Her breath eased. He’d spoken without thought, so perhaps he meant it. Perhaps he wasn’t just trying to trick her.

  Marriage to him would bring a sure roof over her head, regular meals, and children. Perhaps a chance at the truth about Jamie.

  Aye, but there’d be a price when she stepped out of her front door—the taunts of the ton about Bakeley’s poor Irish bride.

  The ton wouldn’t matter if…

  “I can be loyal, if you’ll but show me respect.”

  “You’re thinking of Lady Arbrough. I’ve truly broken with her, and as long as I have the company of an affectionate and loyal wife, there will be no need for other women.”

  Well, that was honest enough too. She was to be loyal, or else. They would marry for his spite, for her sustenance, and for a son. Not for love, and wasn’t it just as well?

  She looked at his hands. “No fingers crossed, my lord? While I’d be grateful to not share a husband, ’twas something else I was thinking of—my Irishness. My poverty. Can you not hear the voices? Did you hear what Shaldon’s heir did? Fell prey to a bog-trotter without two coins to rub together. You must think ahead to when your father passes on and you take his seat in Parliament. You must think about your business interests. Who’ll side with you to make laws, to work out contracts?”

  His jaw firmed, but when he spoke his tone was the gentle one he’d used on the horse that day in the street. “I’ll have my brother Bink in the Commons, and his mother was an Irish girl. And as for business, my reputation has been established. Men in trade look at trustworthiness and the potential for profit.”

  “But socially—”

  “Socially? I heard you speaking like a queen to those ruffians. If you don’t kno
w how to run a great house, we’ll find someone to teach you. Perry knows something about it.”

  She’d forgotten Lady Perry, who had said she would be her fast friend.

  “Sirena, it’s a fact that this gossip will get out, and both our reputations will be ruined. You must say yes.”

  Must she?

  His reputation no doubt weighed heavier than hers, else they would not be at this point. Spiting his father played some part also. Would there be any chance at happiness?

  Her heart twisted with aching. For one such as herself, happiness didn’t come in this life, certainly not in a marriage. It was daft to expect it. The best she could hope for was shelter, meals, and a babe or two, if the birthing of which didn’t kill her.

  And then there was the matter of finding Jamie.

  “Sirena.”

  She looked into his dark, intense eyes. He was a determined sort, and surprisingly warm behind closed doors. Not prone to tantrums, else he would’ve had one with her on the way back from the docks. He’d not raised a hand to her, as many men might have done.

  If he didn’t truly have an interest in her fair person, he was doing a grand job of acting. An answering need spiraled through her. Lust it was, but at least they would have that.

  And it was true. This time she wouldn’t be able to escape the ruin, and by all that was holy, she didn’t want to find herself alone on the London streets.

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  He tugged her close and set his lips to hers. She didn’t bother to fight, surrender being what she wanted, what she’d yearned for the first moment he’d taken her hand in the dance the other night. Her lips parted for him, her tongue met his, her head bent back, and at the place where their hips joined, she felt the hardness of him. She’d lurked in the shadows of the stables often enough while the men and boys talked to know what that would be, and the thrill of it shot through her, sending hot moisture pooling between her legs.

  He cupped her head firmly, and with the other explored every inch of her person, settling on her breasts and lighting more wildness within her. She moved her hands up his hard chest, around to his neck, threading her fingers through his thick hair.