Seduced

by Pamela Britton

  A night of pleasure? Oh, gracious, if the maid only knew.

  And on the heels of that thought came the notion that she wondered if Lucien had been affected by what had just happened?

  Well, of course he’d been, you dolt. You could feel that.

  She blushed again.

  And from that thought came another. He didn’t trust himself.

  She didn’t know what to make of that. Should she be frightened? Happy that he obviously thought it wise to stay away? Worried?

  “Come along,” the maid said. “You’ll catch a chill standin’ out ’ere in this drafty old hall.”

  Elizabeth blindly followed her into the room. Instant warmth enveloped her. A fireplace stood in the room’s corner to her right, with a large bed with a red-and-gold coverlet against the opposite wall. She tried not to think about that bed, nor the images of her and the duke sleeping in it.

  Lord willing, he’d given up the idea of sleeping with her, too.

  No wall coverings decorated the room, just heavy, ornate red-and-off-white drapes that hung alongside the massive round tower window to the bed’s left. A cherry side table stood on ornately carved legs to the window’s left. A door to her immediate right led to a large dressing room. It was there that the maid headed.

  “Did you an’ the duke have a pleasant dinner?”

  Had she eaten? Elizabeth couldn’t remember.

  “Cook likely outdid herself. Truth be told, the whole staff were excited to ’ear about the duke’s marriage. Never thought we’d see the day.”

  She turned to her, her blue eyes filled with friendliness. “The staff thinks yur lovely.”

  Elizabeth felt her brows lift. “I—” She swallowed, not quite sure how to respond to a servant’s praise. Did one respond? “Tell the staff thank you.”

  The maid smiled, turning her around with gentle hands on Elizabeth’s shoulders. “What do you think of the castle?” she asked, quick with the catches.

  Elizabeth had to force away memories of the duke doing the same thing. “It’s lovely,” she heard herself answer.

  “Aye. ’Twill be as grand as a palace when ’tis finished. ’Eard the duke tell John that he had the money for more repairs. Guess the crop that came in was a good one.”

  “The crop?”

  “Aye,” the maid said. “The townspeople are excited. Means more work for the menfolk. Times were tough afore the duke took to repairing the castle with money from these lands.”

  Elizabeth turned to face the maid, unable to contain her curiosity a second longer. “What do you mean, ‘money from these lands’?”

  The little maid looked pleased at finally hearing words emerge from her mistress’s mouth. “Money from Ravenshire,” she said.

  “You mean from all his lands, do you not?” Elizabeth affirmed.

  To her shock, the maid shook her head. “No. Just from his land, the estate he inherited as a lad. He doesn’t touch none of the other.”

  He didn’t what?

  The little maid must have noticed her shocked expression, for she grabbed her arm, the familiarity of the gesture startling Elizabeth. “You didn’t know?”

  “I, I didn’t,” Elizabeth found herself saying.

  The maid looked up at her with a thoughtful expression, some of her friendliness fading. “He’s never touched the other money, from what I ’ear.” She stared up at her, eyes narrowing. “And I ’ear tell, he’s vowed he never will.”

  It dawned on Elizabeth then why it was she stared up at her so challengingly. “I didn’t marry him for his money.”

  The maid didn’t look like she believed her, not surprising since servants knew everything. Like as not this one knew of the duke’s dastardly reputation, undoubtedly assuming the only reason a lady would marry a man of such character would be for his money. Or his title.

  “Well, ’tis a good thing then,” the maid said, her expression very near a scowl. “For he refuses to touch the ducal money. Says it’s blood money.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. Drawing away from the maid, she sat down on a nearby settee, uncaring that the top of her dress sagged around her elbows. “Blood money,” she whispered. She looked up, her surprise apparently obvious.

  “You thought he mighta killed his brother, like they said, didn’t you?”

  No, she didn’t. Or perhaps she did. Heavens, she didn’t know what to think. A part of her had wanted to believe in the duke’s innocence. And yet another part of her had followed the flow of society’s thinking; that the duke could easily have arranged his brother’s murder. Such a thing had been done before. Undoubtedly, it would happen again.

  But if Ravenwood didn’t do it, why did he not protest his innocence?

  “I just assumed …” Elizabeth’s words faded.

  “Aye, as have others,” the maid said, glowering at her. And then she did the unthinkable. She turned her back to her, her expression that of a cat whose tail had been stepped on.

  Heavens, she was about to walk out on her. Her mother would dismiss her on the spot.

  She was not her mother.

  “Wait,” Elizabeth called. “Please.”

  The woman slowly turned, a scowl marring her brow.

  “What is your name?”

  “I told you earlier, mum,” she all but snapped. “Polly.”

  Had she?

  One does not speak to servants.

  Her mother’s voice rang out in her head, only this time Elizabeth shushed it for good.

  “Polly, I’m sorry if I offended you.” She took a deep breath, meeting Polly’s gaze head-on. “I did not marry the duke for his money, nor his title, you see. He compromised me. We had to get married.”

  The suspicion didn’t fade. If anything, it grew. “Had to, ma’am?”

  Did maids get compromised? Elizabeth wondered. She had no idea. She’d been schooled in how to hire servants. Schooled in how to treat them, but she was chagrined to realize she actually knew nothing about them.

  “Yes, had to. If I hadn’t married him, my family would have been ruined, my father a laughingstock. I would have been ruined. We were forced to wed and I fear neither of us is happy about it.”

  Polly’s expression remained skeptical.

  “So you see,” Elizabeth added, “I am not the fortune hunter you think.”

  The maid drew herself up, eyes blazing. “Yur a fool.”

  Elizabeth drew back, shocked to be snapped at thus.

  “The duke is one o’ the nicest employers a person could ask for. He doesn’t chase th’ maids. He doesn’t ask for special ‘services.’ ’Tis fair and decent, he is, and a lady like you should be grateful for his attentions.”

  The ferocious little maid took a step at her. “The poor man’s heart fair broke clean in two when his brother died. He spent hours on ’is beach. We had to drag him away one night after he near froze himself ta death.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes went wide.

  “But what fair broke me heart, what had the whole lot of us cryin’ in the kitchen, was the sight of the duke’s tears. The cold had frosted them upon his cheeks in twin tracks.” She clenched her hands. “ ’E’s a good and decent man, and he didn’t kill his brother. And if you doubt me words, just be ’ere on the anniversary of his brother’s death. ’Tain’t none of the staff what goes near ’im round that time, despite the love we all have for him.”

  No one, least of all Elizabeth, could doubt her words.

  Polly’s hands unclenched as she straightened, her expression irate. “So forgive me if I take offense at yur havin’ ta marry the man. Half the women on staff would love to be in your shoes.”

  And with those words she whirled again. Elizabeth could only stare blindly at the spot where she’d been.

  He’d cried?

  She didn’t know why the words startled her so, but they did. Perhaps because the duke always seemed so cavalier about everything. So unfeeling. It was hard to believe he could care about anything enough to cry over it.


  But who wouldn’t cry over the loss of his brother?

  A man who’d cold-bloodedly killed that brother, that was who.

  It was then that Elizabeth admitted to herself that she might have been wrong about him. Oh, goodness.

  She’d called him a murdering whoremonger. Her hand lifted as she covered her mouth, her fingers shaking. She’d said the words to his face in full view of society, ignoring the brief glint of something she’d seen in his eyes.

  Pain.

  Only now would she admit to herself that she’d seen pain.

  Gracious, what had she done? What had they all done, for she wasn’t the only one to think him guilty of the crime. Society did, too. And yet, the duke had never once denied their accusations. He made a joke of it, Elizabeth having heard tell that he’d once dressed as an executioner at a masquerade ball. It was a morbid thing to do given the circumstances, and all of society had been agog because of it. There were some who had said his costume had been his way of admitting his guilt. Why else would he do it?

  Why else, indeed?

  The maid had undone enough catches for Elizabeth to shrug out of her gown and to strip down to her chemise. She crossed to the round tower windows, rubbing suddenly chilled arms. It was a long time before she turned away, her eyes burning from the length of her stare. As she reviewed her time with him, Elizabeth had to admit Lucien had behaved far from dishonorably toward her. Certainly, he had compromised her, but that was more the result of his bad judgment than any true desire to do her ill, for no matter what he said, she truly doubted he’d meant to go through with any sort of seduction. It had been a game, one that had gone horribly awry. Yet, in the end, he’d done the right thing. He’d married her. She turned, staring at the bed … a bed she would share with him soon.

  Sleep was long in coming to her that night. A part of her wondered if he might go back on his word after their passionate interlude below. But, as she finally drifted off to sleep in the early hours of morning, not even a mouse stirred in their rooms. That was her last thought before her eyes closed … Only to open moments later.

  “Good morning, my dear,” a masculine voice purred.

  She came up in bed, nearly colliding heads with him, only to slam back on the feather mattress again. The wretch leaned over her, arms on either side of her body, a wicked smile upon his face, his pepper-colored eyes glittering with that daredevil’s gleam.

  “Did you miss me last eve?”

  Their interlude in the dining room came rushing back to her with a speed that made her cheeks flush. It didn’t help that he wore no jacket, his shirt in shocking disarray. A half-formed notion that he might not have changed last eve penetrated, only to fade away when she noticed that his shirt was half-undone, a light sprinkling of hair showing through the crack. The intimacy of his dress shocked her, as did the way he lowered his head toward her, his wicked green eyes mere inches away. “I am more than willing to pick up where we left off, if you’ve a mind.”

  God help her, but all she could think about was the feel of him against her, his body pressed against hers intimately. The urge to close her eyes overcame her. She fought it.

  “Get off me.”

  “But, my dear. I am quite comfortable.”

  And she was distinctly uncomfortable. His breath wafted over her cheeks, making her body tingle. It also made her realize that she was in a bed with him for first time. Bother that, with any man for the first time.

  She fought a groan, fought the urge to look away. “Get off me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She’d begun to tremble, though not from fear.

  “I thought you might like to continue your lessons.” He leaned even closer, his lips mere inches away, and was it her imagination, or did his body tremble, too? “They promise to be”—he leaned even closer—“amusing.”

  “Please,” she whispered, her head sinking back into her pillow. The scent of him filled her nostrils. He smelled different this morn. No lemon. More like fresh-cut grass.

  He tilted his head—and dear God—did he come even closer? “If you insist.” Instantly, he rolled off her.

  It was as if she’d escaped from beneath an elephant. A six-thousand-pound elephant. Good heavens.

  He stepped back from the bed. Elizabeth realized why he smelled like the out of doors. He’d been riding. Hard, by the looks of it. His hair hung loosely around his head, part of his shirt drooping from his rust-colored breeches that were tucked into brown-topped riding boots. Flecks of grass dotted the surface of those boots, the green nearly the same color as his conniving eyes.

  “Since you don’t want to pick up where we left off,” he said, his eyes glinting roguishly, “how about another kind of lesson, eh?”

  She couldn’t think. All she wanted to do was sink beneath the covers and hide her head. She watched as his eyes swept over her. Of its own volition, her hand smoothed her hair. She usually braided it at bedtime, but last night she’d been so rattled, she hadn’t touched it. As a result, it hung around her shoulders, bits of it clinging to her face. She swiped at it. His eagle eyes followed the motion.

  “Well?” he asked.

  Think, Elizabeth. Think. “What kind of lesson?”

  He straightened, the morning light illuminating half his face. He hadn’t shaved as yet, a fine dusting of dark hair clinging to his chin. “A lesson in dress,” he said.

  “A lesson in what?”

  Lucien tilted his head. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Haven’t decided what?”

  “My dear, has your hearing gone bad again?”

  “My hearing is quite fine, as you well know. I simply cannot believe—” Her words trailed off, her mind having a hard time deciding on the best way to phrase her concerns.

  “Cannot believe what?”

  She forced her gaze to meet his own head-on. “That you mean to continue with our lessons.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” he asked with lifted brows.

  Because you almost snogged me silly on the dining room table, her mind fair screamed. But she didn’t say the words aloud, though her face flamed as brightly as if she had.

  His eyes narrowed. “Are you, perhaps, referring to our time in the dining room?”

  He knew she was. The cad. Wretch.

  “For if you are,” he continued, “I would not think too much of it. ’Twas nothing more than your virginal reaction to a master’s touch.”

  “I beg your pardon?” she said between clenched teeth.

  He waved a hand in the air, his posture that of a tutor instructing a pupil. “It would be like a stable master teaching a horse how to canter. The horse doesn’t canter because it wants to, it does so because it’s instructed. Last night I taught you how to kiss a man. ’Tis nothing to be ashamed of.”

  He sounded so cavalier about it, so absolutely unaffected, Elizabeth felt her hands clench the coverlet. She might be innocent, she might be naive, but she was no fool. He’d desired her. Only he tried to bamboozle her into thinking he hadn’t.

  “Indeed?” she drawled in disbelief.

  “Indeed,” he agreed, inclining his head.

  “Well, that is a relief,” she said, “and here I thought you had lost control.”

  “Lost control,” he shot. “Good heavens, no.”

  She studied him through narrowed eyes.

  “ ’Twas only my body’s natural reaction to your touch. All men react that way to a woman’s touch. ’Tis the way of things. We can’t control ourselves, heaven help the man who tries.”

  Hmm, methinks he doth protest too much. “So what you’re telling me then is that if we move forward with our lessons, I shall have to get used to our”—she searched for the right words, sitting up in bed a bit just to see what would happen—“reaction to each other.”

  She watched as his gaze dipped down for a second, then swept back up. Was it her imagination, or did his eyes heat? “Indeed,” he said.

  She stared up at him unblinkingly.
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br />   He smiled, but it looked a bit forced. “Of course, I will understand if such a thing frightens you. In fact, if you would like to call it all off, I will certainly understand.”

  Ah-ha. So that was the lay of the land? He was trying to goad her into calling it off, just as he’d tried to bribe her into calling off their marriage.

  Seize the excuse, Elizabeth.

  But something held her back, something that had to do with some silly ridiculous hope that maybe, just maybe …

  “No,” she said softly, “I do not think I shall call it off.”

  She had the pleasure of seeing his eyes widen, of seeing him look momentarily shaken. Just like he had been last night when she’d declined to back down. And as soon as she saw that look, she knew she’d made the right decision. Wherever it might lead.

  “You don’t?” he asked.

  “No, Your Grace, for ’tis obvious by last eve’s performance that I have a lot to learn.”

  And, yes, his voice was definitely a croak when he said, “You do?”

  She bit back a smile. “I think we should continue.”

  “You do?”

  “Indeed. I am completely at your disposal.”

  “You are?” He took a step back, almost as if she’d begun to spout poisonous bugs from her mouth. But then he seemed to get ahold of himself. His eyes caught on something. She followed his gaze. Her dressing gown. “You are,” he repeated, and his green eyes narrowed, their color turning almost black. “Very well,” he said. “We can get started straightaway then. Get out of bed.”

  And suddenly, the tables had turned.

  “Go on, I promise not to thrust myself upon you in a fit of uncontrollable lust. Takes more than that to arouse a man of my experience.”

  He was trying to goad her. Again.

  Her lips compressed into a line. She felt her hands clench. “Very well,” she said. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to crawl from beneath the covers. Forced herself to place her feet on the floor and reluctantly stand.

  It was like standing before him naked, the thin chemise affording little cover. But some of her embarrassment faded at the look on his face. She watched it happen. Watched the way his breath caught. The way his whole body seemed to resonate.