To Seduce a Bride

by Nicole Jordan

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  Don’t miss all three enthralling novels…

  Excerpt for To Seduce a Bride

  Also by Nicole Jordan

  Copyright

  To my wonderful rider friends:

  Karen, Wyatt, and Kari.

  Thanks for all the great times

  and for taking such good care

  of my “kids”!

  Chapter One

  Lady Freemantle’s matchmaking is vexing enough to drive a saint mad, and you know I am no saint.

  —Miss Lily Loring to Fanny Irwin

  Danvers Hall; Chiswick, England; June 1817

  “I cannot understand why he flusters me so,” Lilian Loring mumbled unevenly to the gray cat. “No man has ever unsettled me this way.”

  A soft purr was the only reply Lily received to her complaint.

  “It is not merely because he is handsome, either. I am not ord’narily attracted to handsome noblemen.” If anything she was highly wary of them. “And I care nothing for his rank and consequence.”

  Giving a woozy sigh, Lily stretched out in the straw as she stroked the cat’s fur. She was hard-pressed to explain the deplorable effect that Heath Griffin, Marquess of Claybourne, had on her. Particularly since she had just met him for the first time this morning at her sister’s wedding.

  “The trouble is, he is too sharm…charming.” And virile. And vital. And powerful.

  Whatever his attributes, they made her absurdly breathless and agitated.

  “Devil take ’im….”

  Lily bit her lip and fell silent upon registering how slurred her words sounded. No doubt the result of drinking three full glasses of champagne—which was at least two glasses too many, given how spirits of any kind went directly to her head. But the events of the evening had been dismaying enough to drive her to imbibe.

  She wasn’t completely foxed at the moment, yet it had probably been a mistake to attempt climbing up to the stable loft wearing a ball gown—an exquisite confection of pale rose silk—and dancing slippers. Weaving her way up the ladder in such narrow skirts while carrying a napkinful of tidbits had challenged her usual athleticism. But she had wanted to bring supper for Boots before she left the wedding celebrations.

  Boots, the Danvers Hall stable cat, had recently given birth to a litter of kittens. Currently the family of felines was contentedly curled up in the box Lily had arranged in the loft to protect the mother cat and her new offspring from the home-farm dogs. Lily had left her lantern hanging on a peg below so as not to frighten the youngsters, and the muted golden glow contributed to the tranquility of the loft, as did the warmth of the night, since it was nearly summer.

  The three kittens were little balls of fluff, their eyes barely open, but they were beginning to show their own unique personalities—much like the Loring sisters, Lily thought. The sight of the baby kittens blinking sleepily up at her roused intensely tender feelings in her chest, since she had a soft spot for the helpless and less fortunate.

  If she was honest with herself, however, she would admit that she’d sought refuge in the stable loft as much to escape Lord Claybourne as to feed the estate cat and indulge in a bout of self-pity.

  While Boots was nibbling delicately on breast of roast pheasant, Lily carefully reached inside the box and picked up one of the adorable kittens.

  “Do you re’lize how precious you are?” she murmured, pressing her nose into its soft ebony fur. The black kitten was the rambunctious one, like Lily herself, and it swatted at her nose playfully.

  Lily gave a low laugh, which helped staunch the ache in her throat at the poignant memories she was trying to hold at bay.

  It had been a lovely wedding this morning in the village church, where her eldest sister Arabella had married Marcus Pierce, the new Earl of Danvers. An enormous wedding breakfast and ball had followed at Danvers Hall, with nearly six hundred guests in attendance. The celebrations had gone splendidly, due in large part to her middle sister Roslyn’s untiring efforts and hostess skills.

  The ball would continue for at least another hour or two, until after midnight, but Lily and Roslyn had said farewell to Arabella in private a short while ago, sharing tears of happiness and sadness.

  It was extremely hard for Lily to bear, losing Arabella to marriage, but the evening had been made even more difficult by the meddlesome matchmaking efforts of their kindly patron, Winifred, Lady Freemantle. Several years ago, when the Loring sisters had been penniless and in desperate need of earning their own livings, Winifred had supplied the funds to start their Academy for Young Ladies for the daughters of the wealthy merchant class. All during the ball, Winifred had kept pushing Lily in the path of Marcus’s close friend, the Marquess of Claybourne.

  Eventually, much to her chagrin and dismay, Winifred cornered her and practically forced his lordship to dance with her.

  “You will be delighted to have so desirable a dance partner as Miss Lilian, my lord, no mistake,” the middle-aged matron assured him.

  “Delighted and honored,” Claybourne replied, smiling lazily down at Lily.

  She felt color heat her cheeks. As her traitorous friend turned away, beaming with sly glee, Lily stared back at Claybourne, vexed and tongue-tied.

  The marquess was tall and powerful, with an air of breathtaking virility that commanded attention. His hair was a tawny brown, his eyes a gold-flecked hazel, and he had an utterly masculine face that made countless feminine hearts flutter.

  Lily discovered that she was no different. Deplorably aware of her quickening pulse and heightened senses, she stood there feeling awkward and fuming at Winifred’s machinations. It was mortifying, being paraded before the very wealthy, very eligible marquess like a heifer at a fair.

  She remained mute as she accepted Lord Claybourne’s hand and let him lead her onto the ballroom floor. And when the orchestra struck up the opening bars of a waltz, she reluctantly moved into his arms. She did not like being so close to him, to his heat and vitality. Nor was she pleased at how conscious she was of his body, of his natural grace, his easy sensuality as he guided her to the lilting rhythm of the music. She had never observed such things about a man before. Normally she only noticed a man’s potential for brutality, the size of his fists—

  “Do you dislike dancing in general, Miss Loring?” Claybourne finally asked to break the silence between them. “Or do you object to dancing with me in particular?”

  Lily was taken aback by his perceptiveness. “Why would you think I object, my lord?” she hedged.

  “Perhaps because of that fearsome scowl you are wearing.”

  Feeling a fresh flush tinge her cheeks, she forced a polite smile. “I beg your pardon. Dancing is not my favorite pastime.”

  Those jeweled eyes glinted down from beneath heavy brows. “You do it quite well. I confess that surprises me.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Why should it surprise you?”

  “Because Marcus claims you are a spitfire and a hoyden. I understand you would rather enjoy a good gallop across a field than be caught dead in a ballroom.”


  That honest observation won a reluctant laugh from Lily. “Most decidedly I prefer riding to waltzing, my lord, although ‘spitfire’ is a bit harsh. Marcus thinks I am one because I frequently quarreled with him about Arabella when he was courting her. But I am fairly even-tempered. However, I freely admit to being a hoyden—except when I play teacher at our Academy and must set a good example. Or upon occasions such as this, when I am required to endure the social niceties for my sisters’ sakes. In truth, I find a certain pleasure in defying the dictates of the ton.”

  “I can admire a rebel,” he said, his tone edged with amusement. “You are very different from your sisters, are you not?”

  His observation earned a sharp look from Lily. She regarded Claybourne suspiciously, unable to tell if he considered the difference favorable or not.

  Not that she minded if his judgment of her was unfavorable. Nor did it bother her that she always fell short in comparisons with her sisters. Both Arabella and Roslyn were remarkable beauties with fair hair, creamy complexions, and tall, elegant figures.

  Lily couldn’t match their height or aristocratic bearing—in addition to having dark hair and eyes and a rosy coloring that made her seem a changeling in her blond, blue-eyed family. Moreover, her sisters were the epitome of grace and ladylike gentility, while her own high spirits and stubborn aversion to conforming to the absurdly stuffy precepts of the ruling elite regularly led her into trouble.

  But Lily had no intention of apologizing to his lordship for her subversive tendencies. Indeed, to her mind, the less conversation she had with him the better.

  He, however, did not appear inclined to take her hint and keep silent. “Did you enjoy the wedding ceremony this morning, Miss Loring?”

  That topic was an extreme sore point with her also, although she managed to hide her wince. “Arabella made a beautiful bride,” she said carefully.

  “But you don’t approve of your sister marrying my friend.”

  Lily’s frown returned as she scanned the ballroom for the bridal couple and found Arabella and Marcus laughing together as they waltzed. “I fear she may be making a mistake, wedding so suddenly. They have known each other for barely two months.”

  “And yet they profess to be madly in love.”

  “I know,” Lily said morosely. Watching the tender looks Belle and Marcus shared as they glided together in the dance, she had to admit they seemed very much in love. “But I worry that it won’t last.”

  Claybourne smiled. “You sound very much like my friend Arden.”

  Arden, Lily knew, was Marcus’s other close friend, Drew Moncrief, the Duke of Arden. The three noblemen—Danvers, Arden, and Claybourne—were as thick as thieves. “His grace did not want them to marry, either?”

  “No, and for your same reasons.”

  “What about you, my lord? What is your opinion of their union?”

  Claybourne’s eyes glimmered with amusement. “I am reserving judgment for the time being, but I’m inclined to approve. They look remarkably happy now, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes. And I truly hope it continues. I don’t want Arabella to be hurt.”

  That seemed to catch his attention. “And you think Marcus will hurt your sister?”

  “That is what noblemen tend to do,” Lily muttered under her breath, although his lordship evidently heard.

  His gaze turned curious. “Not all noblemen are villains, Miss Loring.”

  “No…in all fairness, they are not.”

  At his mention of villains, she studied the marquess measuringly. He was a powerfully-built man, broad-chested and muscular. The top of her head barely came to his shoulder.

  Ordinarily she was wary of powerful men. She tended to measure them by how they treated women, a habit ingrained in her when she was a mere girl. Yet surprisingly Lord Claybourne did not make her apprehensive. At least not for the usual reasons, because he was bigger and stronger than she.

  He looked very strong, yet he didn’t seem to be the kind of man who would use his strength against someone weaker.

  Perhaps it was his easy smile. Or perhaps it was because of the tales she’d heard of him. The Marquess of Claybourne was legendary for the way women adored him.

  He was said to adore women in turn, just not enough to marry any one of his numerous conquests. Which made it surprising that he didn’t object to his friend Marcus’s unexpected marriage.

  “I trust you don’t mean to condemn me out of hand,” Claybourne observed, interrupting her intent perusal. “At least not until we are better acquainted.”

  Lily clamped down on her wayward thoughts. “There is no need for us to become better acquainted, my lord,” she said lightly. “We don’t move in the same circles, and as soon as the wedding celebrations are over, I plan to resume being a hoyden and never set foot in another ballroom except under pain of death.”

  His laugh was husky and charming—and quite disarming. “Marcus warned me you were unique.”

  Lily had a mutinous desire to resist that effortless charm. Tearing her gaze away from his amused one, she focused on a distant point over his shoulder.

  She didn’t want to admit her attraction to Lord Claybourne. He made her feel delicate and fragile and feminine—and she did not care for the sensations at all. Indeed, the sense of power, of vitality, about him, was overwhelming.

  But oddly, his allure was due to more than his handsome features and masculine form. There was an aura about him that hinted at excitement. He looked like a bold adventurer. A traveler, an explorer. As if he should be captaining a ship, sailing the seven seas, or leading an intrepid expedition, probing the secrets of unknown lands.

  Lily didn’t know if he owned a ship, but she knew he was a sportsman. The stories of Claybourne’s sporting exploits were repeated in all the drawing rooms. And Winifred had been singing his praises the entire day, attempting to rouse Lily’s interest in targeting him for her husband.

  She had absolutely no desire to marry the marquess, however, or any other man for that matter. Even though she was forced to admit that Claybourne was the most compelling man she had ever met—which was an ideal reason to keep away from him.

  As soon as the waltz was over, Lily had extricated herself from his unnerving company.

  She intended to leave the ball early in any case, to spend the night with her good friend Tess Blanchard, a genteel young lady who was also a teacher at the Freemantle Academy.

  After saying farewell to Arabella and then drinking two more glasses of champagne in quick succession—Lily had needed the libation for fortitude and to hold back her tears of sadness—she made her way to one of the rear stable wings, formerly used for broodmares, to feed Boots and check on her kittens. It was blessedly quiet here, set away from the rest of the yard.

  Her head was still swimming from the overindulgence of champagne, along with her potent memories of Lord Claybourne. The feel of him as they’d waltzed—sinewy and powerful, all lithe grace—had uncustomarily flustered her.

  “But I trust I will never see him again after t’night,” Lily muttered as she returned the black kitten to the box. “Or at least that I will never again be the victim of Winifred’s humiliating mash…matchmaking schemes.”

  It was then that Lily heard a faint noise from below, like a throat being cleared.

  Wondering who had entered the stable, she shifted her position to look over the loft’s edge. Her heart skipped a violent beat when she spied the broad-shouldered Marquess of Claybourne leaning against a post, his arms folded, his head cocked to one side.

  When her head suddenly started spinning dizzily, Lily drew back in haste. Oh, dear heaven. Had he overheard her lament that he was too charming? What other incriminating observations had she made about him?

  Holding a hand to her throbbing temple, Lily slowly peered over the side again. “M-my lord, what are you doing here?”

  “I saw you leave the ball and wondered why you would visit the stables.”

  “Yo
u followed me?” Lily asked blankly.

  Claybourne gave a bland nod. “Guilty as charged.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “So you were shamelessly eavesdropping?”

  “I was curious. Do you always talk to yourself, Miss Loring?”

  “Sometimes. But in this case I am speaking to the cat…Actually cats. Boots the stable cat recently had kittens.”

  “Would you care to explain what you are doing up there in the loft?”

  “If you mush…must know…I am feeding her.”

  “You came here to feed the stable cat?” His tone held surprise and a hint of disbelief.

  “Should I have let her starve?” Lily asked rhetorically. “Boots is an excellent mouser, but at the moment she has more important tasks to occupy her, namely taking care of her kittens.”

  His handsome mouth quirked. “Do you mean to remain there with the cats?”

  “No. I will come down as soon as my head clears. I seem…to have drunk a bit too much champagne.” To her chagrin, she was too dizzy just now to climb safely down the ladder to escape Lord Claybourne’s unwanted presence.

  “Then you won’t mind if I join you,” he said, moving across the aisle to put a foot on the lowest wooden rung.

  Yes, she minded! Lily sat up abruptly, wondering how she could prevent him from imposing his company upon her. “You cannot climb up here, my lord!” she exclaimed, yet her protest obviously had no effect, since his head soon appeared above the ledge.

  “I believe I can. I plan to keep you company.”

  With his torso in view, he paused to survey her with interest.

  “You will get your coat dusty,” Lily said lamely, eying his elegantly tailored evening coat of burgundy superfine—Weston, no doubt—that fitted those magnificent shoulders to perfection.

  “My coat will survive.” His gaze raked over her own attire. “What about you? You are wearing a ball gown.”

  “That is different. I don’t care about clothing.”

  When his eyebrow shot up, Lily realized that her retort could have two meanings. “I d-don’t mean that I like to go naked…” she stammered, feeling scalding heat flood her cheeks. “I only meant that I don’t care about fancy clothing…ball gowns and shuch.”