Seduced
Pamela Britton
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Author's Note
The Editor's Diary
Copyright
This one’s for the man upstairs. I gotta admit, there
were times when I thought You had it in for me. But
You know I was never truly angry with You.
(All right, maybe a little.)
And then You gave me Michael.
And then Codi.
And before that the best parents in the world.
Not to mention three supportive, ever proud siblings.
I lost sight of that for a while, and I sometimes wonder
how I could ever have thought You didn’t care.
Thank you, Lord, for the blessings in my life.
And especially for giving me this wonderful, though
sometimes painful, ability to write.
May Your touch always guide my hand.
Prologue
It was a well-known fact amongst society that to love Lucien St. Aubyn meant your death.
Oh, it wasn’t as if everybody who’d ever cared for the man had died, just almost everybody.
Take, for example, his governesses. Four of those good ladies had died before Lucien ever reached his prime, one, it would appear, from nothing more than a headache. That the young earl’s groom had passed away, too, seemed most coincidental. But ’twas after the death of his best friend that people began to cross themselves. After all, a man could only be surrounded by so much death before it seemed, well, odd.
Losing one’s best friend would not be such a terribly strange occurrence. After all, people died. Rather, it was the way Lucien’s best friend died that truly frightened the more superstitious lot.
Marcus had died from a rock. That the rock had been thrown up from the wheels of Lucien’s carriage seemed most ironic. That Lucien had been on his way to see Marcus, and Marcus on his way to see Lucien, seemed ironic, too. But that the rock had struck Marcus in a spot so rare, so hard to hit, the doctors proclaimed it hardly believable that it could happen at all, well, that was the final irony. And then when Lucien was twenty, his father had died, at which time people recalled that Lucien’s mother had died in childbirth, and, well, it didn’t bode well for Lucien’s social life that dowagers all but clutched their daughters to their bosoms whenever he was near.
A part of Lucien was troubled by his past, too. After all, it seemed most bizarre that so many people of his acquaintance resided underground. Could there be some truth to the rumors that he was cursed?
His concerns, as silly as it may seem, plagued him to the point that one day he found himself broaching the subject with his brother. Henry, whom Lucien thought about the most sensible person on God’s green earth, actually laughed.
“Lucien, old man,” Henry had said, “you must be daft to believe in all that rot.”
Lucien had been greatly comforted by the words. Still, a part of him wouldn’t let the issue rest.
“And ’tis not as if they all died suddenly,” Henry had further pointed out. “You’ve gone years between deaths.”
“Yes, but ’tis a lot of deaths.”
“And they all died of natural causes,” Henry had continued, “including Father.”
“A chicken bone is natural?” Lucien had asked.
Henry’d shrugged. “ ’Tis not as if the chicken flew down his throat.”
To which Lucien had laughed. Henry was a master at stating things in a mundane, yet humorous way. To tell the truth, Henry hardly seemed concerned about anything. And why should he be? Henry had been born first; thus guaranteeing his brother sixty thousand pounds a year, a dukedom, acres of land, and his pick of the season’s beauties. Lucien had been born second, thus guaranteeing him a pittance of Henry’s fortune, an earldom, and a castle whose walls crumbled into the ocean.
But even though Henry’s inability to be ruffled irked Lucien to no end, he still loved his brother. Yes, he was a bit jealous of the bounder, and he ofttimes made his jealousy known, but that was to be expected: all second sons were jealous of the firstborn.
“So you do not think it odd that so many people who have known me are dead?”
His brother gave him a gamin grin. “Not at all odd, brother. After all, you haven’t killed me yet.”
Two months later Henry was dead.
It was then society began to call Lucien the Duke of Death, a sobriquet Lucien had tried to ignore, yet deep down inside his worry had tripled. Nine people had died knowing him, the last, his brother, the most horrible death of all.
Henry had been shot. But what made it all the more worse, what made it scarcely believable, was that Henry had taken a ball from a pistol Lucien himself had shot.
Henry dead.
Wonderful, sanguine Henry, the only family Lucien had had left.
For the first time Lucien knew the true meaning of grief. Nothing, not even his father’s death, had hit so hard. It didn’t help that society whispered behind ornate fans that perhaps the new duke had purposely killed his brother.
And as the rumors grew in volume, it became clear many people thought him guilty of the deed. Oh, society still accepted him, but it was under duress. Whereas before Henry’s death Lucien had been invited to the most prestigious of parties, a year after the death he was hard-pressed to receive above twenty invitations a season.
So it was that Lucien found himself rather at odds with society. They didn’t like him. He didn’t like them. But still he forced himself amongst them almost as if to damn them all for daring to show their animosity to his face. And as the years passed, as the memories of the deaths faded, he became more and more accepted.
But Lucien never forgot. Perhaps as a way of hiding his pain over being responsible for his brother’s death, perhaps as a way of thumbing his nose at those who thought him guilty of such a deed—whatever the reason—he grew quite reckless, doing things no young buck in his right mind would do: seducing innocent women (well-bred innocent women), racing through London’s winding streets at breakneck speed. Holding wild parties at his estate. He became something of a rake. Well, more than that. He was the king of all rakes.
The Rake of Ravenwood.
Oddly enough, his new sobriquet only increased his appeal. Women would sigh whenever he entered the room, the younger ones fantasizing about being the one to bring such a devilish duke to his knees. Older women, women of an age to remember the scandal associated with his brother’s death, found his dangerous past alluring, not to mention his sin-with-me green eyes, wide, strong shoulders, and masculine, square jaw. Even those matrons hired to keep such men away from their charges—the chaperones—fanned themselves whenever he drew near. Never mind that the duke had been rumored to ruin more than one of their charges.
Lucien grew bored. Who wouldn’t when you could have your pick of women, behave any way you wanted, and get away with it? He was the result of an overindulged mind. He didn’t believe in love, thought the emotion a scam, a fairy t
ale invented by poets and novelists to entice young ladies into reading their words (and paying for the privilege).
No, love did not exist, and if it did—a statement he was known to utter aloud on more than one occasion—it would certainly never find him.
Or so he thought.
Elizabeth Montclair didn’t belong. She knew it. The ton knew it. And, lord help her, the London papers knew it.
It wasn’t that she wasn’t titled. She was, after all, the daughter of an earl. The problem stemmed more from where the title had come from rather than the title itself. After all, earning an earldom simply because one was—as George III had put it—“A damn fine cobbler,” wasn’t exactly, well, romantic. One needed to slay dragons, or depose princes in order to gain the respect of the populace.
So it was that while growing up Elizabeth became quite used to the scandalized looks she received. It didn’t help matters that the carriage she rode in had a half boot inside the crest. Her grandfather, almost as crackers as the king, had thought the idea hilarious at the time.
Society was not amused.
Elizabeth ofttimes thought that it was from her grandfather that she had inherited her somewhat unconventional and unusual mind, a mind, it seemed, often plagued by odd thoughts. But she accepted the fact that whilst in the midst of a curtsy she might have a sudden urge to spring into an Irish jig. Or perhaps slide down the banister rail and into the ballroom. They were odd thoughts, to be sure, thoughts she always contained, but there nonetheless. Then, too, her departure from normaldom might have had something to do with her aunt’s marriage to Lord Harry Ludlows.
Now, a marriage would not normally have had such a radical effect on a young girl, but this had been no ordinary marriage. The Montclair family had been rather shocked by the aunt’s announced nuptials. The woman had been on the shelf for nigh on twenty years (owing, no doubt, to her father’s smelly profession). But upon meeting the groom, her aunt’s father had understood only too well. Lord Ludlows was the infamous Ludlows heir, a miscreant of such reputation even the newly styled earl had heard of him. Ludlows had been sent to the Continent as punishment for one of his more sensational escapades, and it was upon the Continent that Aunt Lilibeth (as she was called, having been named Elizabeth, too … as was every firstborn daughter of Sheffield, all two of them) had met her beau. There she’d fallen in love with her “reformed” rake. And there she’d married him, much to her family’s dismay.
Elizabeth had been befuddled by her grandfather’s anger over the marriage. Her aunt had always told Elizabeth to marry for love, and now her aunt had done so. Was there a more perfect end to a more perfect fairy tale?
As mentioned before, Elizabeth was young, too young to realize that things were not as they seemed.
Lord Ludlows took his return to England with a certain degree of jubilation. Ripe new pickings for his roving eyes. Never mind that he was newly wed. He made it abundantly clear to his new wife shortly after their marriage that he’d only married her because she was an heiress. Nothing else could have persuaded him to marry—good God—a commoner. He’d needed money, and Aunt Lilibeth had seemed the best way to gain it.
And so when Elizabeth found her aunt crying in the family solarium one day, at first Elizabeth had thought her injured.
“Why, Aunt, what ever is amiss?”
In response, her aunt began to sob in earnest, Elizabeth thinking she must surely be in pain to carry on so. And instead of doing what most children her age would have done—run off to tell an adult, or begin crying herself—Elizabeth had gone to her aunt, doing a very odd thing for a child her age by cupping her aunt’s face with her hand. “Are you wounded?” she had asked, genuinely concerned.
Her aunt had sniffed a few times before managing to say, “Aye, child. I am hurt.”
“Where?” Elizabeth asked.
“Here,” her aunt had said, drawing back from Elizabeth and pointing to her heart.
Elizabeth had looked perplexed when she spied neither blood nor even a cut in her aunt’s lemon-colored gown. She looked into eyes near the same sapphire blue as her own and frowned. “I do not see a wound, Auntie.”
Her aunt used her free hand to wipe at her tears. “That is because the hurt is deep inside.”
“It is?”
Her aunt nodded, looking away for a second, her eyes filling with tears again.
“If I kiss it, will it make it better?” Elizabeth had asked.
“No, dearest, this kind of hurt will never go away.”
A frown had settled upon Elizabeth’s face, for she didn’t understand.
Her aunt must have seen her confusion, for it was her turn to frame Elizabeth’s face with her hands. Skin—so smooth it looked like poured milk to Elizabeth’s young eyes—filled with color. Her aunt’s eyes glistened with tears as she stared down at her. “Poor dear. You have no idea of how miserably the ton will treat you, do you?”
Elizabeth, who thought a ton was something that weighed a lot, merely shook her head.
“They will eat you up and spit you out,” her aunt predicted. “Especially if you marry as miserably as I have done.” And then her aunt did a startling thing. She bent her head so they were nose-to-nose. Her expression turned somewhat fierce. “You must promise me something, Elizabeth. Something very important.”
Elizabeth, who would have done anything for her aunt, nodded.
“Promise me you will never marry one of them.”
Elizabeth felt her brows lift. “One of who?”
“Them,” her aunt all but growled. “Men. Scoundrels. Fiends, all of them: Never to be trusted.”
The words shocked Elizabeth, as well they should, for her aunt had always preached that every girl should marry, but more than that, marry for love. “But … I don’t understand.”
Aunt Lilibeth had drawn back, her face turning sad all at once. “You will in time.”
Elizabeth doubted it, but she was not truly a normal child, and so she resolved to give her aunt’s warning some serious thought, enough so that she never forgot her words.
As it happened it wasn’t until two years later that she finally understood. She’d been sent to her aunt, something that Elizabeth never minded, thus when she arrived she didn’t wait for the butler to announce her. She’d burst into the drawing room. And caught her uncle atop one of the upstairs maids.
Elizabeth had been horrified, puzzled, then, with a surge of maturity far beyond her years, she’d finally understood. Her uncle didn’t love her aunt. He loved the maid.
But it wasn’t until two years after that she completely understood, for it was then when she made her bow to society.
A comeout ball. Who wouldn’t be excited? And Elizabeth was, as every girl her age, very excited indeed. The weather that night had been splendid. Clear. Warm. Magical. Her mother, a Hartnell of the Cheshire Hartnells, had prepared her well for the day. Elizabeth had lain down to rest early on (so that she wouldn’t have bags under her eyes, but she was so excited she could barely lie still). When the time had come she’d donned the prettiest gown (a white satin dress with silver thread shot through it so that it looked like stars glittered upon her skirts). Her black hair had been washed and combed to such a shine one would have a hard time picking out the coronet her grandfather had purchased from an impoverished viscount. And as she stood, poised at the top of the stairs, Elizabeth had felt like a princess.
Too bad a prince hadn’t shown up.
Nor a duke.
Nor even an earl.
Just the youngest son of an impoverished baron along with fifteen other guests.
It was a humiliation of the first order, and her mother had never recovered. And as Elizabeth danced with the one eligible young man who’d deigned to show up, she’d finally understood her aunt’s dire words. The rest of the guests had looked on, most of them family members from her great-uncle’s side, all of whom had shown up to gawk at their wealthier relative’s household goods. (Elizabeth had caught one distant cous
in stuffing a napkin holder into his pocket. She could only guess he’d thought it a bracelet.) No matter that she’d been educated at a proper boarding school. Nor that she had the manners and grace of a duke’s daughter. As her aunt had warned, society looked upon her with disapproving eyes.
It was a heartbreaking realization, and some young ladies might not have borne it.
Elizabeth did. She realized nothing she could say or do would change matters. She accepted that she would never be good enough for the ton in the way that most people accepted the color of their hair. And if sometimes certain barbs hit home, she ignored them. She behaved perfectly. Attended parties. Danced sedately.
But deep down inside, buried far in her heart, Elizabeth wondered if it was all a farce. Perhaps one day she would rebel. Perhaps one day people would see her as she truly was, a commoner masquerading as an earl’s daughter. Perhaps one day she would do something truly shameful. After all, no matter how perfectly she behaved, she would always be the granddaughter of a cobbler.
And the offspring of a shoemaker did not, as a rule, marry into the nobility.
Or so people thought …
Everyone ought to bear patiently the results of
his own conduct.
—PHAEDRUS
Chapter One
London, 1819
There was a certain amount of freedom that came along with being a rake. A glorious liberation that made the black coat and tails Lucien St. Aubyn wore almost worth the effort it took to button himself into it. Almost.
Clutching a crystal-tipped walking stick, the duke of Ravenwood stepped down from his carriage. The air was chilly, the heavy clouds that had hung low over London’s hazy sky having dropped to the ground. He took a big whiff of moist air, letting it invigorate him, before patting his chest to ensure his quizzing glass was where it should be and stepping toward the huge mansion that belonged to one of society’s premier families: Lord and Lady Derby.
Rolling off into the night, his massive black carriage pulled away as he climbed the steps of the brick mansion, ignoring the curious and excited stares he received as he followed the crowd toward a rather grandiose and ostentatious ballroom that near deafened him from the number of voices coming from within. Some half-wit, his hostess no doubt, had come up with the brilliant idea of having rose petals tossed down from the balcony that encircled the ballroom. As a result the petals dotted the guests’ clothes, hair, and foot bottoms. Frankly, he was surprised Lady Derby hadn’t dressed young children in loincloths and fake fairy wings and suspended them from the ceiling. Then again, he should probably be thankful she hadn’t thought of the idea. Like as not she’d have nailed the wings to the childrens’ backs, causing an unholy racket.
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