Pure Temptation

by Connie Mason

  Grabbing her cape from the nail, Roger tossed it over her head and dragged her from the room. No one was in the hallway, and he pushed her toward the backstairs leading down to the kitchen. The servants were all abed this time of night, and they passed through the kitchen unseen. Roger’s strength was relentless as he wrestled Moira through the rear entrance and into the rain-drenched night.

  Kicking and struggling furiously, Moira was dragged to the carriage house and tossed into the coach. Roger followed close behind, bellowing for the coachman, who came stumbling from his warm bed above the carriage house.

  “Are you going abroad, milord?” the man asked sleepily. “ ’Tis a raw night.”

  “Hitch the horses to the coach, Stiles,” Roger ordered brusquely. “I’ll be going to the Dashwood estate tonight.”

  As the man moved around to do Roger’s bidding, he caught sight of Moira, struggling inside the coach. “What’s amiss, milord?”

  “Nothing, Stiles. You saw nothing, understand? If you value your position, you’ll mention this to no one.”

  Stiles was no fool. He had a cushy position, a warm bed and an extra coin or two for a willing wench. He’d driven Lord Roger on more than one occasion to the Dashwood estate and was aware of the evil doings that took place in limestone caves on the grounds, but since he valued his life, he had kept the knowledge to himself. Besides, Lord Roger made it worth his while. If Lord Roger wanted this incident forgotten, then he’d forget it, although he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of pity for the poor Irish lass being abducted for illicit purposes.

  “Aye, milord, as ye wish. Give me a minute to dress and I’ll be with ye.”

  “Help me!” Moira cried when she found her mouth free of Roger’s hand.

  “He’ll not help you,” Roger growled, turning on her. “Go ahead and scream—no one will hear you above the pounding rain.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Since you profess to know so much about the Hellfire Club, I thought I’d take you to our ceremony tonight and let you experience firsthand what goes on during our rituals.” He laughed nastily. “You’re going to be our sacrificial virgin, whether you’re virgin or not. The disciples will be delighted, though ’tis unlikely you’ll recognize any of them. We all wear monk’s robes and hoods over our heads.”

  “I want nothing to do with your debauchery!” Moira cried. “Let me go. I won’t tell a soul what I overheard. I’ll disappear. I’ll go back to Ireland.”

  “Too late,” Roger said as the coach rattled down the driveway. “Sit back and enjoy the ride. You may even like what’s going to happen to you tonight, though I doubt it. You will make yourself accessible to all or any of the disciples who desire you. Be assured I’ll be the first in line to sample your wares.”

  Moira closed her eyes and shuddered. Would her ravaged body be found floating in the Thames tomorrow? she wondered dully.

  “After tonight’s ceremony, I know of a dockside brothel that will be happy to take you off my hands. I vow you’ll not see the light of day once you’re locked inside.”

  Moira drew her cape around her chilled body and huddled in the farthest corner of the coach. The night was raw and blustery but could not compare with the coldness inside her soul. She would rather die than be used and abused by Lord Roger and his evil cohorts. Moira had always considered herself a resourceful woman, and becoming someone’s victim did not appeal to her. Her mind raced furiously, searching for a way to escape.

  When Roger sat back and leaned his head against the backrest of the speeding coach, Moira shifted her gaze past his relaxed body to the door handle, so close yet so far. If she lunged past Roger when he least expected it, was it possible to plunge down the door handle and leap through the opening before he could stop her? She would likely suffer a small injury, but if luck was with her, she’d be up and away before Lord Roger gained his wits.

  Moira’s chance came when the coach skidded around a corner, throwing Roger off balance. In that split second Moira made her move. Lunging past Roger’s knees, she pushed down on the door handle and hurled herself through the opening. She hit the ground with a resounding thud, crying out in pain when she struck her head a stunning blow. Rolling head over heels in the dirt and mud, she came to rest in the filth-strewn gutter. Stunned, she lay still as death, every muscle wrenched, every bone jarred, unable to breathe, let alone move, her head pounding.

  The coach clattered to a halt a few yards down the deserted street. Roger was out the door before it came to a full stop. A few seconds later, the coachman joined him. Together they ran to the place where Moira had fallen.

  “Is she dead, milord?” Stiles asked fearfully as he peered into Moira’s white face.

  “See if she’s breathing,” Roger ordered, too fastidious to touch the lifeless bundle lying at his feet in the filthy gutter.

  Stiles knelt and placed his ear on Moira’s chest. “I don’t hear a heartbeat, milord.”

  “Bloody hell. Let’s get out of here before someone happens along. My father will have a fit if my name is linked to Moira’s death. Take me to the Renfrew mansion. I need blunt to buy passage to France, and Renfrew owes me a favor. I’ll return when all this blows over. I’ll make up some story for you to tell my father. If you value your life, I suggest you forget tonight ever happened.”

  Stiles blanched. “Ye can trust me, milord. Nary a peep will leave me lips.”

  Moira drew in a shuddering breath when Roger hauled himself back to the coach. When she fell the breath had been knocked from her lungs, and she had deliberately withheld air in order to convince Roger she was dead. Lord knows she felt dead. When she tried to rise, her body refused to obey, and she lay unmoving in the freezing rain, thinking she’d probably freeze to death before someone happened along. Marshaling her meager strength, she tried to stand by bracing herself on her arms. Debilitating, excruciating pain shattered through her. She screamed and sank into oblivion.

  The Present

  Moira was still screaming when she awakened from her terrifying dream. She would have died from exposure if Jack hadn’t found her. She owed him her life and deeply regretted the fact that she couldn’t tell him he hadn’t been the cause of her injuries.

  Suddenly the bedroom door burst inward and she saw Jack’s tall, muscular form outlined against the gray dawn. He wore only his breeches, left gaping open in his haste to slay the dragons attacking Moira.

  “What’s wrong? Are you ill?”

  Moira sat up, hugging the sheet to her breasts. “Nothing is wrong.”

  Jack crossed to the bed, stopping along the way to light a candle.

  “Something is wrong. You screamed. I heard your cry clear down to the guest room. Look at you, your cheeks are wet. Have you been crying? You’re white as a ghost.” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Don’t tell me Lady Amelia paid you a visit. I thought she only haunted family.”

  “Lady Amelia?” Comprehension dawned. “The ghost? No, nothing like that. I hadn’t realized I cried out. It must have been a nightmare,” she said, unwilling to disclose the details of her disturbing flashback.

  Jack perched on the edge of the bed, taking her trembling hands in his. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  Moira shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “Don’t you trust me?” Tenderly, he brushed a stray tear from her cheek. “Why were you crying?”

  “I hadn’t realized I was. ’Tis nothing, truly. I’m sorry I awakened you.”

  “Bloody hell,” Jack cursed, rising abruptly. He ached to stay with her but knew what it would lead to. “Get some sleep. We’re to attend a ball at Vauxhall tonight, and I want you at your best.”

  Sleep, Moira thought bleakly. Would she ever sleep again? What would happen to her when Roger returned from France and they chanced to meet at a party? After careful consideration, she decided her safest course was to marry well and let her husband’s name protect her. With those thoughts in mind, she finally drifted off to sleep.
>
  Jack knew the moment he entered his room that he wasn’t alone. He groaned in dismay when the shrouded figure of Lady Amelia’s ghost pulsed with eerie light.

  “What do you want now?” Jack asked irritably. “I’m in no mood for your haunting.”

  Lady Amelia’s celestial light dimmed a bit as Jack threw himself down on the bed and flung an arm over his eyes.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” he challenged. “My life was carefree and untroubled until you threw Miss Moira O’Toole into my path. What in bloody hell did you hope to gain? I was more than content to spend my nights drinking, gambling and carousing. I’m marrying money; that ought to make you happy, since the house will now stay in the family and you can continue to haunt future Graystokes, should I produce an heir. Which is highly unlikely, knowing Victoria.”

  Lady Amelia floated across the room to hover beside the bed. She looked down at Jack and shook her head. Sensing her nearness, Jack removed his arm from his eyes and stared back at her.

  “You don’t talk much, do you? For God’s sake, listen to me. I’m talking to a ghost! Ah, well, what does it matter since you can’t repeat what I say.

  “I don’t know what to make of Moira, or my feelings where she’s concerned,” Jack continued, as if talking to a ghost was a natural occurrence. “Damned if I don’t find myself wanting the sensuous Irish light-skirt. I can’t recall when I’ve been so bewitched by a woman. Granted she’s not your usual Irish servant, but that’s no reason for me to wish for things that can never be. I need to marry money.”

  Lady Amelia leaned closer, so close that Jack felt the heat of her brilliant light warm his body. She shook her finger at him, as if scolding him for something he’d said.

  “This is your doing, isn’t it?” Jack accused. “If not for you, I wouldn’t be hot to bed a woman who’s had one too many lovers. My emotions where Moira is concerned are tautly drawn and at odds with what I know about her. I’ve accepted responsibility for her injuries and am doing my level best to see to her future, but perversely, I don’t want another man involved in her life. What in the hell is wrong with me? Is Moira a witch as well as a whore? If you think Moira will somehow redeem my soul, you’re wrong as hell. Perdition has already claimed me.”

  Lady Amelia seemed upset by Jack’s outburst. With a toss of her head, she began fading away into a pinpoint of light, finally disappearing completely, leaving Jack with a strange emptiness that had nothing to do with his meddling ancestor or her obvious disapproval of him.

  Chapter Seven

  Moira felt the effects of attending three balls in a row in her aching feet, slumping shoulders and tired facial muscles, stretched unnaturally into a perpetual smile. And next week would be just as busy. Invitations arrived daily for one society function or another. For the past two weeks she had laughed, danced and eaten her way through countless parties with countless men paying her court.

  Following the first ball, Lords Harrington, Renfrew and Merriweather had called upon her at Graystoke Manor in fashionable Hanover Square, bearing gifts and flowers. She had been invited for drives through the park and various other activities, earning Jack’s displeasure. No matter which suitor she saw, Jack disapproved. In truth, Moira found little to admire in her suitors except for their wealth.

  Soon her three admirers were joined by yet another ardent swain, Viscount Peabody, somewhat older than the others but just as rich and in line for a dukedom. Moira was bewildered by Jack’s response to her popularity. As the number of her suitors increased, Jack became more disgruntled.

  “I don’t want you going out alone with any of those men,” Jack told her after a visit from Lord Renfrew. “Be sure and take Jilly with you. They are all notorious rakes and womanizers. When I see them posturing and preening for your benefit, I thank God I am neither titled nor a macaroni dandy.”

  “You’re a baronet,” Moira reminded him.

  “Ah, but baronets are not peers. I may travel in the same circles, but I am just a cut above a commoner.”

  Moira thought Jack anything but common. “Do none of my suitors please you?”

  Jack frowned, wondering the same thing. “I am responsible for you. I’d not like to see you make a disastrous marriage. Surely you can’t be serious about either Harrington, Renfrew, Merriweather or Peabody, can you? Have they dazzled you with their gifts and compliments? Do you fancy any of them?” His voice had a hard edge to it that betrayed his annoyance.

  “Lord Peabody seems very nice, not like the others who are vying with one another for my favors.”

  “Peabody has already done in two wives. Do you want to be his third victim?” Jack asked tightly.

  “He killed them?”

  “Well, no,” Jack admitted, “but he left his first wife in the country to bear their child alone. ’Tis rumored she died of heartbreak due to her husband’s neglect, though the doctor said she expired from an illness brought on by complications of childbirth. The second was killed in an accident.”

  “Jack Graystoke, you know better than to listen to gossip! Lord Peabody seems too nice to be guilty of the things you’re suggesting.”

  “Nevertheless, he’s not good enough for you. We’ve got time. Someone I approve of is bound to come along.”

  Moira seriously doubted Jack would find anyone he approved of, and she couldn’t imagine why. He’d told her Victoria wouldn’t marry him until Moira was established in her own household, so why was he being so obstinate about this?

  “I’ll make up my own mind, thank you. Where are we going tonight?”

  “We’re going to the Duke of Marlboro’s reception for a visiting dignitary from Russia. Prince Gregor Vasilov is in London with his retinue, and I was lucky enough to wrangle an invitation. Everyone who is anyone will be there.”

  The opulence of Lord Marlboro’s house was staggering. The ballroom was twice—nay, three times—the size of their entire cottage in Ireland. The rooms were ablaze with thousands of candles, and the buffet set up in the dining room contained food she was unfamiliar with, prepared by chefs with culinary expertise beyond her imagination. Moira was so in awe of her surroundings that she felt woefully inadequate and out of place.

  She was grateful for her four swains, who rarely left her side, and for Jack, who maintained watch over her. The highlight of the evening came when Jack presented her to Prince Vasilov, who had begged for an introduction. The prince was an impressive blond giant dressed in a dazzling white uniform embellished with shiny gold braid. In contrast to his fairness, his eyes were as black as sin, their lively twinkle making his handsome features come alive. His smile, as he bent over Moira’s hand, was capable of chasing away the darkest gloom.

  “You are enchanting, mademoiselle,” the prince said in French-accented English. French was the language of the Russian court, and all noblemen spoke it fluently. “I am Prince Gregor Vasilov. Will you honor me with a dance?”

  “I’d be delighted,” Moira said, returning the prince’s smile. The dance happened to be a waltz, and he swept her away, leaving a scowling Jack in his wake.

  “Moira’s made another conquest,” Spence said as he came up beside Jack. “I hadn’t counted on a Russian prince, but he’ll serve if he wants her badly enough.”

  “He can’t have her!” Jack thundered ominously. Those close enough to hear looked at him curiously.

  “Not so loud,” Spence warned. “What in the devil is the matter with you? We wanted a little diversion from boredom, and that’s what we’re getting. ’Tis amusing the way Renfrew, Harrington, Merriweather and Peabody are fawning over Moira, thinking her a lady. And now the prince. ’Tis well worth the two thousand pounds if she bags royalty. Ah, there’s Lady Gwen. I’ve been looking for her. Tell Moira I said she’s doing splendidly.”

  Jack’s fingers raked through his hair, becoming more discomfited by the minute as the prince held Moira much too close for his liking. He was on the verge of rushing to the dance floor and tearing her from the prince’s arms
when Victoria approached, clearly annoyed.

  “Well, who would have thought your penniless Irish ward would attract a prince?” Victoria sounded more jealous than surprised. “I hear he’s unmarried. Do you suppose she has a chance with him?”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it,” Jack bit out. “She’s reaching too far above her. I had thought a viscount or marquess, even a duke, but a prince is out of the question.”

  Victoria yawned, bored with the subject. “I’m dying of thirst, darling. Would you get me something to drink from the refreshment room?”

  “Of course,” Jack said with a hint of impatience. He stalked off, but instead of going to the refreshment room, he waited at the edge of the dance floor for the music to end so he could drag Moira off for a private word.

  Moira was enjoying herself immensely with the prince, who seemed utterly taken with her. She saw Jack glowering at her from the corner of her eye and briefly thought she detected a hint of jealousy in his fulminating glare. Grasping for rationality, she chided herself for a fool and turned her attention back to Prince Gregor. Jack’s only interest in her was finding her a husband so he could transfer responsibility to another.

  “Will you honor me with another dance later?” Prince Vasilov asked as the dance ended. “I find you fascinating, mademoiselle. Are all Irish women as enchanting as you?”

  “You flatter me, Prince,” Moira said coyly. “There are women here tonight who far outshine me.”

  “Not in my eyes, ma petite. Will you allow me to call on you tomorrow?”

  They had reached the edge of the floor where Jack stood waiting. “Lady Moira isn’t receiving tomorrow,” he said bluntly as he snatched her away before either Moira or the prince could protest.