Seduction Wears Sapphires

by Renee Bernard

  “I hadn’t discussed it with him, but once you’ve agreed—”

  “This is no jest. I won’t marry you, Ashe Blackwell. You’ve made it clear that you will marry where you do not love. It’s a likely and safe choice for you. You would deliberately choose to keep your heart out of the equation, and for many women, they would accept you at any price. But I can’t. As much as I—love you, I cannot compromise and live a half-life at your side.”

  “I think too highly of you, Caroline, to ask you to compromise.”

  “How is that possible, Ashe? How can you think more highly of me than any other woman in your acquaintance? I’m not your equal in manners or . . . fortune, despite what you think. And as you’ve pointed out repeatedly, I have the fashion sense of a mule.”

  “Everything changed when you turned my life inside out, Caroline, and I’m sure I never compared you to a mule. A hairless cat, once, but even I’ve forgotten why.” He recaptured her hands with his, unable to stop himself from smiling at how beautiful she was even in the midst of stubborn misery. “Give me another reason, Caroline.”

  “Don’t—” Her eyes filled with unshed tears. “Ashe, be careful.”

  “Marry me.” He dropped to one knee, shameless in his petition.

  “No! I am always serious, I adore conversation above all other entertainments, and I don’t believe we’ve spent a single day together without some argument. By your own criteria, I am a wretched choice for a wife, Ashe. You don’t mean it.”

  “I do, even as I’m secretly cursing that clever little mind of yours that never forgets a single word I utter in haste.”

  “Clever or not, you don’t know me, Ashe. You couldn’t—”

  “If I don’t know you, Caroline, it’s because you’ve been just as cautious to share yourself with me as I have been guarded with you. We are each of us so careful to disguise and hide our weaknesses . . . But you know mine, and it is my turn to petition you to stop this nonsensical charade because you believe that I will think less of you for it. Why? Because your family has cut you out of a fortune out of sheer greed or stupidity? Because you teach?” He shook his head. “You’ll have to dredge up a worse sin, Miss Townsend, to deter me.”

  “Besides coming to England only because your grandfather promised to pay me for my services? I was no better than a servant and I lied and let you believe that we were equals, Ashe. I never intended to . . .” She took a slow steadying breath before continuing. “I never knew what it was to be wanted. I was seduced by the very idea of somehow standing at the center of your attentions. It was intoxicating.”

  “Marry me, Caroline, and I’ll make you drunk with desire for the rest of your days.”

  “Passion doesn’t hold. You said it over and over, Ashe, and I cannot be the wife who politely shrugs when you tire of me and return to your private pursuits outside of our marriage bed.” She straightened her spine and squared her shoulders. “I love you too much to allow it.”

  He stood slowly, drawing her closer. “You cannot love me too much, Caroline.” His fingers reached out to gently trace the wet trails of her tears across her cheek. “Just as I have discovered that I cannot love you too much.”

  “Do you?”

  He smiled, the taste of victory so sweet it took his breath away. “You are an impossible creature, an infuriating and contrary thing that is sure to debate me over every breakfast and never allow me to forget what a distinct mess I’ve made of your orderly life. And I love you, Miss Caroline Townsend.”

  He risked another small step in her direction. “Marry me, Caroline.”

  “No.” Her voice was quieter, her demeanor calm again, and Ashe felt the first hint that he might actually fail—that she might actually refuse him. And he knew there was no going back or everything he’d vowed and all his claims to have changed and given up the coward’s path would be for nothing.

  “Is it the college?” he ventured. “Because I’ll fund a dozen of them and live in the wilds of America if that is what you require, Caroline.”

  “You would say anything. . . . But I can’t ask you to fund something you don’t believe in.” Her eyes filled with tears. “It’s the difference between us. You see people in terms of their status, be it their wealth or their family—and women, even more so by those terms, I think.”

  “Not all women!” he protested. “Not you!”

  “Why not me? I am poor, Ashe. Truly poor, and my family has as much to do with me as the man in the moon.” She crossed her arms defensively. “I know how vulnerable a woman is in this world and I stole every minute of privilege that I’ve had in my life by carefully following the rules and making sure that no one noticed me. But I could just as easily be in Margot’s shoes, and when I looked at her at Crawley’s that night—I knew I couldn’t turn my back on her or Daisy or any of them.”

  “I don’t want you to.” He put his hands on her upper arms, gently holding her in place as he tried one last time to convince her he’d changed. “And you’re right about Margot. I was selfish and cruel to her, and it’s why I was a day behind in reaching Bellewood. I didn’t want to make the same mistake I’d made in India. I didn’t want to be so focused on my own desires and forget about another person’s well-being. And most of all, I wanted to be able to prove to you that I’d changed.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I would have just come after you, and I almost did, but then I remembered the look in Winston’s eyes when all his plans came to naught. He wanted to kill me. And I struck him and humiliated him, but it wouldn’t end there. I couldn’t leave Margot to face him alone.”

  “You . . . saved her?”

  “A simple relocation to keep her out of Yardley’s hands. I sent her to Bath for a change in society.” He shrugged. “I didn’t want another woman’s blood on my hands, and I knew that if anything happened to her, I would truly lose you forever.”

  “You saved her.” Caroline was suddenly looking at him as if he’d lit the sky and set the stars in place, just for her—and Ashe reveled in it.

  “I’m starting to look forward to paying for this college of yours.”

  “Not so quickly, Mr. Blackwell. Lady Fitzgerald has already pledged to support my efforts, and in an attempt to torture her departed husband, may insist that we name the school after him.” She laughed as he drew her into his arms.

  “Say you’ll marry me, Caroline, or I’ll be forced to use drastic measures.”

  “Drastic measures?”

  “I’ll tell my grandfather that I’m madly in love with an impossible American girl who refuses to make an honest man of me.”

  She put her hands on either side of his face and looked up into his eyes. “Yes, Ashe, I will marry you. Though all your friends will think you were forced into it.”

  “Then I will make a point of open and inappropriate demonstrations of affection for my beautiful bride whenever and wherever I can, and soon everyone will instead be commenting on how dear you are to put up with your overly attentive and clearly lascivious husband.”

  “You wouldn’t!” she exclaimed, her cheeks flooding with color at the thought.

  “I will.” He began to kiss the fluttering pulse behind one ear and whispered, “So you see, Miss Townsend, you must marry me, for I clearly require a strong hand and a good deal of supervision at all times.

  “Ashe!” She sighed, leaning into his touch and clinging to his shoulders as the heat between them grew. “I think I’ve lost the lines between dreams and the real world. You make me feel as if I’ve been sleepwalking all along, and only now am I awake.”

  “Caroline, my dearest chaperone,” he said as he lifted her into his arms. “I intend to misbehave for the rest of my life.”

  She laughed, transforming into the temptress of his dreams as he spun her around in joyous celebration. “I certainly hope so, Mr. Blackwell!”

  Keep reading for an excerpt from the first Jaded Gentleman novel by Renee Bernard

  Revenge Wears Rubie
s

  Now available from Berkley Sensation!

  Chapter

  1

  London ,1859

  Galen Hawke’s head pounded in a miserably slow fashion that foreshadowed a long afternoon. He eased out of the large bed, stretching his tall, lean frame with caution to allow his muscles to ignore twinges and small aches after a night of little rest. His arrival in London hadn’t helped him outrun the restless dreams that still plagued him, and Galen yielded up a long, ragged sigh at the very thought of a lifetime meted out by haunting images of dark holes and suffocating tropical heat.

  “You had a nightmare, sir.”

  Galen winced at the woman’s unsympathetic tone and his own lapse in forgetting that he hadn’t retired alone. The courtesan stood by the window in a transparent shift, positioned to no doubt let the morning rays highlight the ample curves of her figure and inspire him to lust. Instead, the bright light was making his eyes water, and Galen was in no mood to indulge her. “I never dream. Perhaps it was your snoring that kept me up.”

  She sniffed in protest, her brass-tinted curls bouncing as she turned mercifully away from the window to sit down in a graceless move at a side table already laden with a morning repast and the day’s paper. One glance at the tray told him that his faithful manservant had come and gone while he’d slept. Damn. I’ll be getting that look from Bradley again. And I’ll deserve it since I swear to God, I’ve forgotten this chit’s name . . .

  His guest picked up the paper and fanned herself. “Suit yourself, then. Mind you, from any other man you’d hear otherwise, but since you acquitted yourself so wonderfully last night, I’ll let it go.”

  She’d seemed prettier to him the night before, but Galen wasn’t fool enough to express his disappointment openly. “How generous of you.” He ran his fingers back through his rebellious black curls before reaching for his robe. “Why don’t you have something to eat before you go?”

  Galen regretted the words the instant he uttered them. It was a clumsy dismissal, but the need for solitude had temporarily overridden the required pleasantries when trying to get rid of an unwanted breakfast guest. He tried to soften the impact by taking the chair across from her. “Shall I ring for tea?”

  She snapped the newspaper open in front of her face, effectively ignoring him. Galen waited for a few moments, oddly grateful for the reprieve from conversation. His headache had just started to ease, so he poured himself a glass of barley water.

  It wasn’t that he’d had too much to drink the night before. Truthfully, he’d always envied men who could merrily throw caution to the winds when it came to distilled spirits, but his own body had never tolerated more than a sip. Ever since his first taste of liquor at sixteen and the disastrous and nearly fatal illness that had followed, Galen had been forced to accept that drinking was one masculine pursuit he would have to abandon. No, this headache was from hours spent in smoke-filled rooms playing cards and a lack of sleep. Last night, he’d hoped a bit of bed-play would drain him physically enough to allow for the dreamless sleep he craved, but once again, he’d met with failure.

  “Aren’t you friends with Hastings?” she asked, interrupting his peaceful recovery.

  “Why?” Galen set his glass down, instantly wary. What the hell has Josiah done now?

  “Some little odd reference of him here. See?” She waved the paper toward him. “What’s this about a secret club?”

  He made no move to take the pages from her. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “Truly?” Her smile took on a mischievous flavor. “Talk and rumor of a clandestine gentlemen’s club, and it’s nothing? Lady Barrow is said to defend ‘the Jaded’ here, and she is not a woman to be amused by phantoms.”

  “I do not know the lady well enough to contradict you, but I pay no attention to rumor. And if there is talk, then it’s hardly clandestine.” Galen shifted back in his seat, confident that the matter was closed.

  Her pout was practiced, but not without appeal. “Come, Mr. Hawke. Why not give me a tip? It sounds wicked, this club. Do they exist or is it something your friend made up to keep some blue-nosed beak out of his social calendar?”

  I’m going to wring Josiah’s neck the next time I see him.

  “What makes you think I could answer that question?” he asked, looking across the table with icy regard.

  “Because,” she answered, squaring her shoulders, “I’ve heard the Jaded described as a sullen group of impossible men too handsome for their own good, and you—while you are a delectable specimen, you are the dreariest man I’ve ever met.” With another shake of her head, she stood, tossing the paper on top of the tray. “If you aren’t one of them, Mr. Hawke, you should be!”

  He watched her hastily gather up her clothes and pull them on with unladylike grunts and snarls, amazed at the speed with which she managed the feat on her own. It occurred to him that he might have offered to help or rung for a maid, but Galen was sure that this time a safe distance was the better part of valor.

  She snatched up her shoes with one last angry sniff, and carrying them in her hand, she sailed toward the door. Galen kept a subtle eye on her as she did, just in case her temper got the better of her and she realized what lovely weapons those heels could be and decided to launch one at his head.

  She threw the door open and disappeared from view, and he closed his eyes in relief. Well, there’s my day off to a lovely start . . .

  He idly picked up the paper, scanning for the article she’d mentioned. “I’m not that damn dreary.”

  “Of course you are!” Josiah Hastings replied from the still open doorway, leaning against the ornate wood with his arms crossed. “Bradley let me in and said you wouldn’t mind the company.” He glanced over his shoulder as if to appreciate the retreating figure of Galen’s guest, and then looked back at his friend. “Ever since we made it back to England, you’ve spent months hiding in that dreary country retreat of yours.”

  “I was ill.” A partial truth, though he couldn’t really describe the dark depression that had seized him after their return. Instead of the euphoric homecoming he’d anticipated, nothing had felt substantial to him. The memories were like demons holding him captive, and Galen had lost himself for a while.

  “Now, I talk you back into Town, thinking it will cheer you, and yet here you are . . . driving away a perfectly luscious guest!”

  “I wasn’t going to invite her to take up residence,” Galen said dryly. “But I’m sure you can still catch the dove if you think she’s to your taste.”

  Josiah straightened from the doorframe and came into the room. “Another time,” he said without enthusiasm.

  Galen held up the paper. “The Jaded?”

  His friend shrugged and moved to occupy the newly vacated seat across from Galen with an eye on the breakfast tray. “I like the name. It suits us. Not that I’m going to emboss it on my calling cards, mind.”

  “Talking to the press are we?” Galen wasn’t willing to drop the subject too lightly.

  “No, we are not,” Josiah answered firmly, beginning to set into the plate of pastries and eggs. “And don’t start squealing and moaning to me about the impropriety of rumors, Galen. I’ve had enough lectures from Michael to satisfy a lifetime.”

  “How did it happen?” Galen asked, his tone more level, as a natural sympathy arose for any man who had survived one of Michael Rutherford’s well-aimed speeches. Rutherford was another of the newly dubbed “Jaded” and largely responsible for their survival and escape from India. A fierce friend, Michael hadn’t yet entirely relinquished his role of protector of the remaining five men who had shared imprisonment with him.

  “Hell, I think I was ambushed! Some informant must have overheard the conversation at Clives, and I can assure you, I said nothing of note. But”—he sighed—“perhaps it was a sin of omission. He who is silent is said to consent, Galen.”

  Galen smiled. “You are a wiser man, today.”

  Josiah shrugged. “It may
not be such a terrible thing. One small mention, sixteen words, and I’ll bet ten sterling we’ll have young bucks applying for membership before the week is out.”

  Galen’s smile drained away. “Not if they knew what the entry fee had been for its founders.”

  “You underestimate the appeal of a good mystery, my friend.”

  “Are we seeking to appeal?”

  Josiah’s expression sobered, a dark storm in his eyes mirroring Galen’s. “We are seeking to get on with our lives—whatever it takes.” He made a dramatic cut of one of the pastries and took a hearty bite. “I don’t give a fig what anyone calls us. A rose by any other name smells as sweet, wasn’t that what dear William had to say?”

  “I don’t think Shakespeare had us in mind, but perhaps you’re right. Still, we have good reason to keep as far downwind of attention as we can manage.” Galen’s gaze shifted down to the paper, wondering at the subtle turn of a dinner conversation and its power to nudge at the illusion that they were somehow separate from the world around them. But it underlined the unique position they were all in—souls marked and scarred from their hellish experiences in India, each man fragile in his own way but also inexplicably stronger. And none of them had returned to the society that they had remembered and longed for. It seemed that no matter how much the Jaded had changed, the world had temporarily outpaced them.

  Or we’ve outgrown tea parties and insipid exchanges over cocktails about foreign policies and the price of cotton for— Galen’s breath caught in his throat and all thought halted as if he’d been struck by lightning.

  A name leapt off the page in his hands, innocuous text suddenly yielding a pattern that made his surroundings shrink and then fall away from notice.

  Miss Haley Moreland.

  A hundred memories, none of them welcome, flooded through him, and it was as if he could hear John Everly at his elbow—his voice low so the guards wouldn’t hear, his stories of home hypnotic for all of them, but for Galen, he had always saved the sweetest bits, about the woman John had loved all his life, about the woman who was a shy angel, about the woman John was going to marry as soon as they escaped . . . about Miss Haley Moreland.