by Connie Mason
Pure Temptation
Connie Mason
LEISURE BOOK NEW YORK CITY
Gentle Persuasion
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Jack said, sensing her fear. “This isn’t new to you; you’ve been loved before.”
“No…I…” What could Moira say? That she’d lied to him from the moment she awakened in his bed? It was long past the time for confessions.
The moment for truth had passed as Jack lowered his head and kissed her eyelids, feathering them gently. His mouth moved down to brush her lips, nibbling lightly, delicately, stroking his tongue against the seam before urging them open so he could taste more fully of her sweetness. When her tongue touched his, his body tightened painfully, less willing to accept being patient than his mind.
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Gentle Persuasion
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
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Romantic Times Raves About New York Times Bestselling Author Connie Mason!
Other Books By Connie Mason
Copyright
Chapter One
London, 1795
Ghosts were so bloody unpredictable.
During his youthful years, Jackson Graystoke had searched every nook and cranny of the crumbling stone mansion that he had inherited, looking for Lady Amelia’s ghost, and he came up empty-handed. When he was a stripling he would have given his eyeteeth for a glimpse of the elusive lady who occasionally haunted the halls of Graystoke Manor. But certainly not now, not when he no longer believed that ghosts existed.
During the two hundred-odd years following the death of Lady Amelia, who according to legend appeared only to those male Graystokes who walked the path to perdition, she had appeared infrequently, since few of her upstanding descendants throughout the years were debauched enough to need her help.
Until Black Jack Graystoke. The black sheep of the Graystoke family, a man dedicated to dissipation.
Rogue, bounder, rapscallion, rake, seducer of women. Men liked him, women loved him. And Lady Amelia, who hovered over his bed like an avenging angel, glared down upon him with obvious displeasure.
“Go away,” Jack said irritably. He had just gotten to bed after a night at the gaming tables and had no time for an apparition who could or could not be a figment of his imagination. He knew he’d had too much to drink, but didn’t think he was that foxed.
Clothed in shimmering light and flowing garments, the ghost shook her head.
“What in the devil do you want?”
Lady Amelia merely stared at him through hollow eyes.
“Why now? Why have you chosen this time to appear when there was a day I would have welcomed a glimpse of you?” Jack was familiar with the legend of the family ghost, having heard it many, many times. “I’m too steeped in sin; nothing you can do will save me from perdition.”
Lady Amelia floated away, toward the door. Jack raised up on his elbow and saw that she was motioning to him. He groaned in dismay and fell back against the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut. When he opened them, Lady Amelia was still there.
“Where am I to go? ’Tis raining out, for God’s sake!” The windows rattled, confirming his words. Unfortunately, the rain had turned to pelting sleet, driven against the house by ice-laden wind. “Can’t it wait till morning?”
Lady Amelia wrung her hands and appeared agitated. Obviously she wasn’t going to go away. She shook her head and pointed toward the door again, even more determined that Jack should rouse himself and plunge into the blustery night.
“Bloody hell, is there no compromise?” Lady Amelia shook her head. “Very well, milady, you win. Take me where you will—I can see there is no sleep for me this night.”
The light surrounding Lady Amelia flickered as if in agreement, then, before Jack’s very eyes, the apparition evaporated through the closed door. Muttering an oath, Jack flung aside the covers and threw on his recently discarded clothes, taking particular care with his neck cloth. He never appeared anywhere less than impeccably attired.
Still grumbling, Jack strode from the room, not surprised when he saw Lady Amelia waiting for him at the head of the stairs.
“Where in bloody hell am I supposed to go?” His handsome features, which women loved to distraction, bore a decidedly annoyed look.
Lady Amelia merely bowed her head and crooked her finger. He followed her floating figure down the stairs. She led him to the front door.
He hesitated. “Do you realize what it’s like out there? ’Tisn’t fit for man or beast. Do you expect me to awaken my coachman on a night such as this?” Lady Amelia merely stared at him, as if to suggest he lacked a sense of adventure. Jack spit out an oath. “Oh, what the hell! I’ll drive the carriage myself, if it will make you happy. All I ask is that you give me some idea where I am to go.”
Lady Amelia seemed disinclined to offer further information as she backed away from the door. Her shimmering light dimmed, then went out.
“Wait! Don’t go! You haven’t told me…” It was too late. Lady Amelia had already disappeared in a wisp of smoke.
Thunderstruck, Jack stared at the empty space where Lady Amelia had stood just moments before. Had he imagined it all? Was Lady Amelia a figment of his rather fertile imagination? Perhaps, he thought ruefully, he was more foxed than he thought. He paused with his hand on the doorknob. What to do? If he were smart, he’d go back to bed and treat this as a bad dream. Or he could accept the challenge and brave the inclement weather.
Black Jack Graystoke had yet to turn down a challenge. Ghost or dream, he was already awake and dressed. If nothing else, he could go to White’s Club and drink with his friends, some of whom would likely be out and about despite the weather. He wouldn’t have returned home so early himself if he hadn’t had the world’s worst luck at cards tonight.
Needles of icy sleet blasted him as he opened the door and stepped outside. Bowing his head against the howling wind, Jack walked briskly to the carriage house and harnessed the handsome pair of grays he’d won in a card game to the shabby carriage, his only conveyance. Nearly everything Jack owned had been either won or lost at cards. His family, impoverished relatives of the young Earl of Ailesbury on his mother’s side, had left him nothing but an inherited baronetcy, a pile of debts and a crumbling mansion located in the heart of London’s Hanover Square that had been in the family for over two hundred years. The mansion demanded so much of his resources that just the upkeep emptied his pockets.
Marriage to an heiress was Jack’s only recourse, and he was seriously thinking about ending his bachelorhood soon by marrying Lady Victoria Greene, a wealthy widow he’d been dallying with. A love match was out of the question. Everyone knew Black Jack Graystoke was too much of a rogue to offer undying love to any one woman.
Jack struck a light to the side lamps of the carriage, leaped up onto the box, took up the ribbons and guided the reluctant grays out of the gate. The sleet struck him forcefully, and he buried his face in his collar, cursing Lady Amelia for his misery. He hadn’t the foggiest idea why the g
host had sent him abroad on a night such as this, and he longed for a bracing brandy or something equally fortifying. Until he learned Lady Amelia’s intention, he might as well make the best of it. Jack drove through deserted, windswept streets to White’s Club and parked at the curb.
The warmth inside the club was inviting as Jack relinquished his cape to the doorman and strode into the brightly lit room. He was immediately greeted by his good friend, Lord Spencer Fenwick, heir to a dukedom.
“Jack, you old dog, I thought you’d gone home hours ago. What brings you out again in such foul weather? Do you anticipate a change of luck? Shall we find room at one of the gaming tables?”
“If my luck has changed, it’s for the worse,” Jack complained, thinking of Lady Amelia’s unexpected haunting. “I’m in desperate need of a drink, Spence, old chap,” he said, placing an arm around his friend’s padded shoulders.
On the way to the refreshment room, Jack caught sight of himself in a gilded mirror hanging on the wall. A tall man, muscular and lithe as a stalking tiger, Black Jack was pure temptation to women of all ages. Wavy dark hair surrounding a bold masculine face, and full tempting lips gave hint to his sensual nature, but it was his wicked gray eyes that captured the ladies’ fancy. Once Black Jack aimed his potent gaze at a woman, she was lost. The problem was that Jack saw no reason to focus those incredibly sexy eyes on any one woman.
“Drink up, Jack,” Spence urged when they finally had drinks in hand. Jack needed no inducement to drown the memory of Lady Amelia in strong liquor. He must have been mad to have conjured up the family ghost he had all but forgotten years ago.
Hours later, both Spence and Jack were deep into their cups, nearly staggering, in fact. Spence had the rare good sense to suggest they call it a night, and Jack agreed. Nothing good could come of this night, Jack decided, still annoyed at Lady Amelia for sending him out in such miserable weather. Whatever did she have in mind for him? Probably mischief, he thought glumly, as if he needed any more mischief in his life. He was more than capable of dredging up enough of that on his own.
“Wise of you to bring the carriage,” Spence drawled as he reeled from the club on rubbery legs and spied Jack’s team and carriage standing at the curb. “I walked, myself. How about a lift? Bloody raw night to be afoot.”
None too steady himself, Jack wove an erratic path to the carriage. “Climb aboard, old chap. Glad to give you a lift.”
“Damned if I ain’t tempted to walk,” Spence grumbled when he noted Jack’s unsteady gait.
“Drunk or sober, I can handle a carriage and team as well or better than any man alive,” Jack boasted as he picked up the ribbons.
Spence had barely settled beside his companion when Jack slapped the reins against the horses’ rumps and the carriage rattled off down the icy road with a jolt that shook Spence to the core.
“Bloody hell, Jack, are you trying to kill us?”
Jack laughed uproariously, until a barrage of icy pellets brought a measure of sobriety, making him realize that his recklessness could endanger not only himself but his good friend. He struggled to control the unruly grays now that they had their head, and he’d nearly succeeded when he felt a jolt.
“My God, what’s that? Stop, Jack, we hit something!” Hanging on for dear life, Spence peered over the side into the dark street while Jack fought the prancing grays. With great effort, he brought the carriage to a screeching halt.
Jack’s sodden brain had registered the small bump but had thought nothing of it until Spence had cried out a warning. Had he hit something? Or someone? God forbid! Leaping down from the box, he felt sober as a judge as he frantically searched the rain-slicked street for a…body? He certainly hoped not.
The night was so dark and the carriage lamps so dim that Jack stumbled over the woman before he saw her. “Bloody hell!”
“What is it?” Spence called from his perch on the box. “Did you find something?”
“Not something, someone,” Jack said, dropping to his knees to examine the body. Searching frantically for injuries, his hands encountered two gently rounded mounds of woman’s flesh. He inhaled sharply and removed his hands as if burned. “God’s nightgown, a woman!”
Spence appeared at his elbow, staring in horror at the body lying in the gutter. “Is she dead?”
Jack’s hands returned to the woman’s chest. The faint but steady cadence of her heart told him she still lived. “She’s alive, thank God.”
“What do you suppose she’s doing out on a night like this?” Spence wondered aloud.
“Plying her trade,” Jack opined. “Only a whore would be out this late. What in the hell are we going to do with her?”
“We could leave her,” Spence offered lamely.
“Not bloody likely,” Jack responded, manfully accepting responsibility for the accident and any injuries the woman sustained.
“What do you suggest?”
“You could take her to Fenwick Hall, Spence, and see that her injuries are treated,” Jack offered hopefully.
“Are you mad? My parents would skin me alive if I brought a whore into their home. I’m in line to inherit, for God’s sake!”
“Thank God I am no one of importance,” Jack drawled with studied indifference.
Spence flushed, glad for the darkness that hid his stained cheeks. “I didn’t mean that, old boy. But you aren’t anyone’s heir. You have no parents to tell you what to do. You don’t give a fig about propriety. You’re a free agent, Jack. You’re the notorious Black Jack. Bringing a whore into your home would cause no raised eyebrows and only moderate scandal.”
“Rightly so,” Jack said with a hint of irritation. His reputation was already black—what was one more mark against him? “Damn you, Lady Amelia,” he muttered beneath his breath. “If this is your idea of a joke, I don’t appreciate your humor.”
Spence looked at him curiously. “Who is Lady Amelia?”
“What? Oh, I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud. Lady Amelia is the family ghost. I think I’ve mentioned her on occasion.”
“What has she to do with this?” Spence asked curiously.
Just then the woman groaned and began to shiver uncontrollably, bringing the men’s attention back to her.
“We’d best get her off this icy street,” Jack said, regaining his sense of chivalry. He’d never made a woman suffer in his life, no matter what her calling. “Help me lift her into the carriage. Careful,” Jack chided when Spence staggered sideways. “Never mind, I’ll do it myself.” He pushed Spence aside and lifted the woman carefully, surprised that she weighed so little. In his arms, cradled against the broad expanse of his muscular chest, she seemed little more than a fragile child.
“Get inside,” Jack ordered as he placed the injured woman in the carriage and stepped aside so Spence could enter. “Try to keep her comfortable until we reach Graystoke Manor.”
Jack drove with more care than was his normal custom. His irresponsible behavior weighed heavily upon him. He’d often been criticized for his reckless ways, but somehow this incident emphasized his impulsive rush toward perdition. Not even Lady Amelia could save him from the course his life was taking.
The carriage entered the gates of Graystoke Manor just as a gray dawn lifted the night sky. The driving sleet had turned into gentle rain, and mauve streaks coloring the horizon gave hint of better weather in the coming days. The moment the carriage clattered to a halt, Jack leaped from the box and flung open the door.
“How is the woman?”
“Still unconscious.”
“I’ll carry her inside while you go for the doctor. I hope you have coin on you; I’m temporarily out of funds. If not, I’ll figure out something. I don’t care what it takes, just get the doctor here.”
Jack took the woman into his arms and banged on the front door with his foot. In due time, a gaunt, sleepy-eyed servant wearing a hastily tied robe answered. He seemed not at all alarmed to see his employer return home at dawn carrying an unconscious
woman.
“Bring hot water and towels to my chamber, Pettibone,” Jack ordered crisply. “There’s been an unfortunate accident. Lord Fenwick has gone for the doctor.”
“Right away, sir.” Pettibone shuffled off, the hem of his robe trailing the ground.
Once in his chamber, Jack carefully placed the woman in the center of his bed, then stood back to take his first good look at her. He was more than a little disturbed to see that she was young and not the slattern he expected. Her patrician features and dainty body belied her profession. Had she newly taken up whoring? he wondered as his gaze roved over her petite form. Jack was no stranger to women of all kinds, and he thought he knew everything about them there was to know, but this woman—no, not woman, for she was no more than a girl—defied definition.
A mop of glorious dark red hair covered her shapely head and fell in a tangled mass about her narrow shoulders. Her features were finely wrought, and he was surprised to find himself contemplating the color of her eyes. Beneath her wet clothing, her body appeared slim and shapely. Though her face was bruised and swollen, which was his fault, he suspected, she was lovelier than he would have guessed at first glance.
“I suppose I’d best rid you of these soaking clothes,” Jack said to the unconscious figure as he lifted her slightly and removed her wet cloak.
The dress beneath was no more dry, and Jack was startled to see she was modestly robed in a demure woolen dress of inferior quality, sporting no ornament whatever. He’d never known a whore to dress in such drab clothing. One would expect to see women of her sort garbed in flaming scarlet with most of her bosom exposed. Turning her slightly, he unfastened the row of buttons marching down her back and pulled the dress away from her body. The pervading dampness had rendered her chemise all but transparent, revealing lush breasts topped with ripe, cherry-red nipples. When he heard Pettibone open the bedroom door, he quickly slid back the quilt and pulled it over her.
“The water, sir,” Pettibone said, presenting a steaming pitcher and a stack of towels. “Will you be needing anything else, sir?”