Seduction of a Widow: The Marriage Maker and the Widows

by Tarah Scott

  “What say you, Mr. MacLaren? Was your mother right?”

  He sidestepped a couple who came perilously close to them, then turned in time to the music, skirting the edge of the dance floor. “My mother is alive and well. I would never think to gainsay her. Mothers have a way of knowing such things even when very far away from their children.”

  Leslie laughed again, as much for the straight-faced way in which he delivered this information, as the fact that she thought he actually believed it. “Your mother sounds like an interesting woman.”

  His expression softened. “She is.”

  He spoke the words with more fondness than was fashionable. That surprised her. This young man, so controlled, had a soft spot for his mama.

  “What of you, my lady?” he asked. “What do you believe makes a man a gentleman?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Not being impertinent with a lady.”

  “I have a feeling that impertinence is something you know a great deal of.”

  She lifted a brow. “That is something a gentleman would never point out.”

  The rueful smile returned. “I imagine my mother is right then. Becoming a gentleman takes a lifetime of work. I beg you, do not tell her that I have failed so miserably.”

  The man had a flare for drama. What an interesting contradiction.

  Leslie met the gaze of Lady Handley as her partner whirled her past. Married eight years, Lady Handley was a woman dissatisfied with her situation. The disapproving look she affected was undone by the jealousy reflected in her eyes.

  “I don't think Lady Handley cares for you,” Mr. MacLaren said.

  “A gentleman wouldn't point that out, either,” she said.

  “Perhaps you ought to give me lessons on how to be a gentleman. No doubt, my poor mother would be grateful for the help.”

  Leslie tilted her head so that she was forced to look at him through her lashes. “I am not such a fool as to believe that is the lesson she would have me teach you, young sir.”

  He lifted a dark brow. “Are you implying that I need lessons in making love to a woman?”

  She misstepped. His arm tightened around her waist and he yanked her close, keeping time with the music. Her heart thundered.

  His gaze darkened. “I see the idea has its appeal.”

  “You are rather abominable, you know.” She cursed the breathless note in her voice. She was no green girl. What was wrong with her?

  “My—”

  “Let me guess,” Leslie cut in. “Your mother has told you this often.”

  Genuine amusement lit his eyes this time. “She has, in fact.”

  The music crescendoed and she realized the dance would soon end. Disappointment stabbed.

  She regarded him. “I imagine she has also told you that you are trouble.”

  His brows shot up. “She has warned me that I will find myself in trouble.”

  Leslie gave a slow nod. “Then I imagine she was sparing her feelings, for you are trouble.”

  His gaze bore into her. “I understand you, too, have a penchant for trouble.”

  Chapter Three

  Lady Carr laughed, full, throaty and with genuine amusement. Evan detected no artifice in her response and the erection he’d been battling since he pulled her into his arms yanked harder on his control. What would her unaffected response be to his thrusting inside her? A mental picture flashed of her astride his hips, head thrown back, hair hanging loose about her shoulders as she rode his cock into orgasmic oblivion. His cock further hardened. He grimaced inwardly. His mother was right again. He was about to find himself in trouble.

  Evan’s mind jumped to attention when he caught the flick of her eyes to the left, and the startlement that flashed across her face. He turned her in a tight circle and glanced in the direction she’d looked. The Earl of Barnton openly stared, his eyes following their progress across the dancefloor. What was this all about? A spurned lover, perhaps?

  Evan dodged a couple, narrowly missing a collision. Lady Carr’s grip on his shoulder tightened and the tendrils of hair that framed her face fluttered. The waltz was nearing its end. Fortunately, he didn’t have to devise a way to see her again—and he did want to see her again—for the house party would last at least a week. The waltz ended, and Evan brought them to a halt. She looked up at him when he didn’t immediately release her.

  “Trouble,” she murmured.

  He released her waist, caught her hand, and placed it in the crook of his arm. “Is it too scandalous for me to escort you to the refreshments room?”

  She laughed. “I doubt anyone will notice if a gentleman escorts a mature widow anywhere.”

  “A mature widow, you say?” He navigated them around a group of men.

  She looked up at him. “Half the women here are debutants and girls in their second Season. Compared to them, I am ancient.”

  “They are children,” he replied.

  “Really?” she said. “They are the perfect age for a young man like you to choose from.”

  He grimaced, and she laughed. “Most men—many much older than you—prefer young women.”

  “Many of those men are chasing their own youth.”

  Evan caught the narrow-eyed looks three women sitting against the wall cast their way as they passed. He knew that look all too well: jealousy. He wasn’t arrogant enough to think them jealous because Lady Carr was on his arm. Nae. Theirs was a jealousy borne of a bone-deep dislike of the lady.

  “Lady Carr.” Baroness Trent hurried toward them.

  Evan caught the smile that Lady Carr hid. He didn’t have to ask about the source of her amusement. Baroness Trent adored French fashion, particularly French fashion that allowed her to show off her full curves; most importantly, her impressive cleavage. Her décolletage dipped so low, her areolas peeked over the edge of the fabric. But as a bona fide mature widow of forty-seven years of age, she was the paradigm of how to live one’s life without concern for what Society thought.

  She reached them. “Leslie, you look wonderful.” The baroness pulled her into a hug, then drew back. “How are you, Mr. MacLaren?” She extended a gloved hand.

  He grasped her fingers and bowed. “You look ravishing, as always, Baroness.”

  “The dress makes the woman, they say.” She leaned close and said in a mock whisper, “I say, the dress should be made for the woman.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Evan said. “We were on our way to the refreshments room. Would you like to join us, or should I fetch you ladies something to drink?”

  “If Lady Carr is agreeable, I will walk with you,” she replied.

  “We would be glad for your company,” Lady Carr said.

  Evan winged both arms and they each accepted, then started forward.

  “I am so pleased you are here with us, Mr. MacLaren,” the baroness said. “I’m hoping you will entertain us with tales of your adventures at sea.”

  “I am at your service,” he replied. “But I must warn you, life at sea is very dull.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Carr said. “The capture of an eighty-gun ship is anything but dull.”

  He grimaced inwardly. He’d recounted the story to his superior once. That had been more than enough. “I am no’ certain that type of excitement will interest you,” he said.

  She cast him a shrewd glance. “I feel certain you do not mean that it is a story a woman cannot comprehend.”

  “Not at all. It is a bloody story, to be sure.”

  She laughed. “Many women thrive on such stories.”

  Including you? he wanted to ask, but said, “So true. Have you ever been aboard a ship, my lady?”

  “In fact, I have sailed on a warship,” Lady Carr said.

  That surprised him. They reached the refreshments room and he stepped aside and allowed them to enter first. He scanned the crowded room and spotted two empty seats near the hearth. “If you would like to sit”—he nodded at the seats—”I will fetch champagne.”

  “Perfect
,” the baroness said. “Shall we, Leslie?”

  She angled her head. “Of course.”

  They headed toward the seats and he weaved through the crowd to the table to find a servant setting out more glasses.

  “I’ll have a glass filled in just a moment, sir,” the young man said.

  “Two glasses, please,” Evan said. “And no need to rush.”

  The lad pulled a bottle of champagne from a box.

  A man stepped up beside Evan. “So, it is you, MacLaren.”

  Garthland.

  Evan canted his head in acknowledgement. “My lord.”

  “I am surprised you have time to attend parties. Do you not have a ship to capture somewhere?”

  Evan turned a cool smile on the man. “Rest easy, my lord. I shall soon be back on the seas protecting your shipping interests.” Within a fortnight, in fact. He had to admit excitement at the prospect of seeing America. Evan snapped from his thoughts, aware that Garthland had spoken.

  “I beg your pardon?” Evan said.

  Garthland’s face reddened. “You forget yourself.”

  From the corner of his eye, Evan noticed the servant had filled three glasses. He picked up two and faced the viscount. Evan gave a slight bow, said, “My lord,” then turned and headed for the women.

  He spotted Lord Barnton with the women. There was no mistaking the purposeful way he towered over them in their seats. Baroness Trent stared up at him in amusement. Lady Carr, however, had murder in her eyes. Evan rounded three men and brushed past a group of ladies, then continued toward the ladies.

  “…fortunate nothing happened,” Barnton was saying as Evan neared them.

  Lady Carr’s eyes shifted past the earl to him. Barnton looked over his shoulder and locked gazes with him. Amused condescension sparked in the man’s eyes.

  Evan reached them. “My lord,” he said, then turned to the women. “Your champagne, ladies.” He handed them each a glass.

  “How fortunate that you are acquainted with MacLaren,” Barnton said. “Perhaps he will regale you with the story of how he took the Zeus.”

  “He took the ship without losing a single man,” Lady Carr said.

  Evan stilled. There was no mistaking her sickeningly sweet tone.

  The earl’s mouth thinned. Her barb had hit its mark. He smiled coolly at her. “You and Mr. MacLaren have something in common.”

  She arched a perfect brow and sipped her champagne.

  “You both got very lucky…once.”

  Heat flashed through Evan. He opened his mouth to reply, but Lady Carr said, “Really, my lord, it has been a month, and you are still angry?” She gave a low laugh that sent a message straight to Evan’s cock. “I really thought you a more gracious loser.”

  Loser?

  Fury flashed in the earl’s eyes.

  “Ah, yes, I forgot,” she said. “You didn’t actually lose. Your horse injured its leg.” She tilted her head to the side and looked at him through her lashes. “Shall I challenge you to another race? What are the odds your horse would injure itself a second time?”

  A race—a horserace—and she beat the Earl of Barnton. How he wished he’d seen that.

  Barnton looked down at her. “A gentleman does not challenge a lady to a horserace.”

  “Indeed not,” she agreed. “But you didn’t challenge me. I challenged you.”

  “A horserace,” the baroness cried. “What a wonderful idea. Lady Carr, I have a spirited Arabian I believe would suit you perfectly. He is a god among horses. We call him Ares.”

  Lady Carr laughed. “After the god of war?” Her gaze remained on the earl. “If his lordship rides the same bay he raced with last month, I fear Ares would give me an unfair advantage.”

  The earl stiffened.

  “Never fear,” the baroness said before he could reply, “I have a dozen horses from which to choose. I feel certain Lord Barnton will have no trouble choosing a worthy animal.”

  Barnton’s mouth thinned. “As I said, a gentleman doesn’t—”

  “I wager she will beat you,” Evan said.

  The earl’s head snapped in his direction. “You would lose,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Evan shrugged. “I not only bet she will beat you, but that she will beat any other participants. Five hundred pounds, shall we say?”

  Lady Carr’s mouth parted in surprise. “Mr. MacLaren, there is no need to risk your money.”

  Barnton gave him a nasty smile. “You would be wise to listen to the lady, MacLaren.”

  “I have often been told I am not that wise.” Evan held his gaze. “Surely, you aren’t afraid?”

  The earl stared for a long moment, then faced Lady Carr and bowed. “Tomorrow afternoon, if it pleases you, madam.”

  She angled her head in agreement, then he whirled and strode away.

  She turned her gaze to Evan. “I imagine it was your mother who said you aren’t that wise?”

  He grinned.

  She shook her head. “She would be right.”

  Evan caught something in her eyes. “You are not afraid, are you, my lady?”

  ***

  Leslie fought the urge to take her leave. She hadn’t realized how easily she’d allowed her feelings to show. It made her feel vulnerable. Naked.

  Despite the twelve years that had passed since her brother died while racing their father’s prize Friesian, she still trembled inside every time she raced. She didn’t race as often as she used to. Perhaps she was getting old. Perhaps the need to face the same danger John had was finally dissipating. Yes, no doubt, that was the case, at least a little. But not enough.

  Mr. MacLaren shifted, and Leslie realized she hadn’t answered him—and he was studying her with those too-keen eyes.

  She laughed, softly. “I am never afraid.”

  “No?” he asked. “Perhaps I was mistaken.”

  “Perhaps you were.”

  Was there a touch of amusement in his eyes?

  Oh, that would not do. Had he reminded her of Carr? Nae, he was a mere boy compared to her. She had been the wife of a dynamic, powerful nobleman, a paragon of military discipline. Now she was an experienced widow, well accustomed to handling her lovers as suited her fancy. She would not be reduced to a trembling, over-eager chit by this young man’s fine face and form. He wanted to seduce her, that she could easily see. But his seduction of her would be no easy conquest and she would enjoy every moment of that greater, most delicious dance between them.

  “Lord Barnton is a prig,” the baroness said.

  Mr. MacLaren’s full mouth turned up in a sardonic smile and Leslie had the sudden desire to kiss him full on the mouth right then and there.

  Baroness Trent turned to her. “I had no idea you raced. So, you beat the earl last month. He will be positively livid when you beat him this time, as well.”

  “He is a skilled horseman.” Leslie wished she’d brought a fan. The room had grown too warm. She finished the last of her champagne, then said, “It is just as possible he will beat me,” as she withdrew a handkerchief from her reticule.

  “I should hope not,” Mr. MacLaren said.

  She paused in lifting the handkerchief to her cheek and said, “I did tell you it wasn’t necessary to risk your money. I should hate to see you lose too greatly.” Something flashed in his eyes and she couldn’t miss the sudden cooling between them. She managed to conceal her disappointment and returned his look steadily. “I meant no offense. You are a third son. It would be expected that you would need to watch your wagers.”

  “I can afford the loss,” he said tightly. “But I do not intend to lose.”

  “Of course, you shan’t lose,” Baroness Trent said. “First thing tomorrow, you shall ride Ares, Leslie. You will love him”—she leaned close—”and he will love you.” She stood. “If you will excuse me, I must see to my guests.” She hurried away, and Mr. MacLaren took the empty seat.

  Alice appeared in the doorway. She scanned the room. Her eyes met Leslie�
�s, then flicked to Mr. MacLaren and narrowed.

  “Gird your loins, sir,” Leslie whispered.

  “What?” He looked in the direction she stared, then grimaced.

  Leslie bit back a laugh.

  Alice reached them, and Mr. MacLaren stood.

  “There you are,” Alice declared. “I have been searching for you. The card room has opened.” She looked at Mr. MacLaren. “Do you play cards, sir?”

  “A bit,” he replied.

  Alice slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. “Perfect.” She looked down at Leslie. “Come, Leslie, let us play cards with Mr. MacLaren.”

  The young man looked down at her. “Do come, my lady. Perhaps Lord Barnton will be there and we can engage him in a game.”

  “I understand he is a skilled player,” Leslie said.

  “All the better.” He held his elbow out for her.

  She rose. They left the refreshments room and turned left down the hall.

  “The second door on the right,” Alice instructed.

  They entered the room and he continued past the half dozen guests to an empty table near the French doors. Alice looked up at him through her lashes when he held her seat for her, then her eyes followed him as he took the two steps to the chair to her right and seated Leslie. When he sat to Leslie’s right—directly across from Alice—Alice pouted prettily but said nothing. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a pack of cards.

  Leslie raised a brow. “Do you always carry cards?”

  “Aye, I find it keeps the other players honest.” His smile didn’t match the fire in his eyes. “But I doubt I need worry about present company.”

  Alice tittered. “Goodness, Mr. MacLaren, you certainly do not.”

  It was the sort of silly, girlish response that Alice slipped into when she was being utterly charmed by a man. The surge of possessiveness that struck Leslie was so fierce, it shocked her. She wasn’t the only woman attracted to the handsome young man. If she didn’t make some kind of claim to MacLaren, at least for the duration of this house party, she might find herself watching a little drama play out between him and her own friend.