Seducing The Vengeful Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Lucinda Nelson

  As he looked into his father’s somber face, he felt that all-too-familiar stirring of guilt. A guilt that had lived with him ever since he’d come home to find that his mother had passed away. That they’d been trying to contact him so that he could say goodbye, to no avail.

  George was right. Philip had abandoned his family. First his mother. Then George and his father. Perhaps some part of him had been naïve enough to try and rectify that, by coming back.

  Philip swallowed, unable to speak.

  His father nodded slowly. “We should retire,” he said. “And perhaps in the morning you can tell us about your travels.” His father’s voice was so… empty. It sounded almost hollowed out.

  Philip was surprised. He’d expected to be shouted out. To be insulted. But instead, his father said nothing of what he’d done. “Yes,” Philip said, and dropped his eyes. “Yes, certainly, we should retire.”

  His father inclined his head. “Goodnight then, Philip,” he said. And then he moved past him towards his bedroom, where he and Philip’s mother used to sleep.

  Now he slept there alone.

  Philip turned to watch his father disappear into the room.

  Chapter 7

  Miss Loraine Beauchamp

  Her aunt did not emerge from her bedroom for two full days. Though this concerned Loraine, it wasn’t especially unusual by any means. When Aunt Esther became upset, as she often did, she always confined herself to her room.

  During those two days, Loraine dedicated her every waking moment to her studies. Loraine had learnt Latin after her father had died. Her father had always tried to persuade her to learn Latin, but she’d been far more interested in playing outside.

  Those who’d met Loraine as a child had called her ‘boyish’. Though she’d been extremely pretty, she’d taken very little interest in typical feminine pursuits. She didn’t knit or sew. But she was a formidable rider, hunter, marksman and she even had a gift for fencing.

  These skills had horrified her aunt when she’d first arrived in Louisiana. Until one afternoon, when Loraine begged her to invite some boys and watch her fence with them. Her aunt had been reluctant to agree, but Loraine had pressed the subject. For weeks.

  At last, her aunt gave in. She promised Loraine one day, but warned her not to expect her mind to be changed.

  But Aunt Esther had seen Loraine hold her own against boys her age, and there had been a twinkle in her eye. She’d clapped and cheered.

  At the time, Loraine had preened under her praise. But as she aged, she realized that her aunt was less impressed by Loraine’s hobbies and more impressed by her capacity to undermine the strength of men.

  Needless to say, her aunt paid for Loraine to continue her classes.

  Amidst these interests, Latin had seemed rather dull to her. She’d often seen her father reading quietly in his study and the library. But after his death, she’d found one of his books and had opened it.

  It was Ovid’s ‘Metamorphosis’ and it had been his favorite book. She’d often seen him carrying it under his arm, long after he had finished reading it.

  At this time, Loraine’s grief had started to descend into a feeling of estrangement and loneliness. She’d started struggling to remember what her parents had sounded like, the exact color of their eyes, how it had felt to be held by them.

  When she’d found this book, she’d wanted nothing more than to be able to read it. She thought that perhaps doing so would make her feel closer to her father again.

  She asked her aunt for Latin lessons. This she agreed to without reservations. Once she’d mastered Latin, she’d fallen in love with it, and she consumed books with an insatiable hunger.

  She wanted to learn. Always. But now that she’d perfected Latin, her mind was seeking out a new challenge. Ancient Greek. A gentleman who’d been visiting Louisiana had met her at a monument she’d been visiting.

  His name was Lord Tristan Garth, Baron of Hillingsworth. Tristan was nothing like other men she’d known. He was always a little pink in the cheeks, as if he was constantly embarrassed. He was so tender and shy in his manner that spending time with him almost felt like being with a woman.

  They’d become fast friends. One of her only friends, in fact. He’d told her all about his penchant for Ancient Greek and she’d shared her knowledge of Latin. Before he’d returned to England a few weeks later, she asked him to promise to write to her.

  He’d agreed, the pink in his cheeks deepening to crimson. They wrote to one another on a weekly basis for the following three years, during which time they agreed that when Loraine came to England, he would teach her Ancient Greek.

  It had been a dream really. At that time, Loraine hadn’t thought that her Aunt Esther would ever take her back. When her aunt had decided to do so, it had come as a shock to Loraine.

  Ancient Greek was tricky. She’d spent the last three years trying to self-teach, but could only get so far on her own. She needed Tristan’s expertise to take her to the next level.

  They’d agreed to meet sometime in the next few days. So in the meantime, she studied until her eyes were sore. Though Loraine worried for her aunt and wished that she could make her feel better, she couldn’t deny that this was a welcomed reprieve.

  Her aunt could be so overwhelming that Loraine found studying without disturbance extremely difficult.

  But one morning, two days after her aunt had confined herself, she came to the library.

  “What are you reading?” Her aunt said from the doorway.

  Loraine looked up from the book and smiled at her aunt. “The Odyssey,” Loraine said, though she knew that her aunt didn’t really care. “How are you feeling, auntie?”

  “Better,” her aunt said, as she lowered herself into a seat. She folded her hands neatly in her lap. “We have something important to discuss.”

  Loraine put the book aside and resisted a sigh.

  “You will be pleased to know that I have devised a plan.”

  “A plan?” Loraine already felt the dread start to settle in. “A plan to what?”

  Her aunt looked surprised and almost a little angry. “To deal with Lord Blackhill, of course.”

  “Deal with him?” Loraine echoed.

  “Yes, of course,” Aunt Esther said, more heatedly, as if she’d expected Loraine to be as consumed by what they’d discovered as she was.

  “Auntie, there’s nothing to deal with. He’s just a man.”

  “Just a man?” Her aunt retorted. She stood as she said this. “I did not raise you to be naïve, Loraine. This man is a danger to us. We have to strike before he does.”

  Loraine stood too and crossed the room towards her aunt. She tried to take her hands, to placate her, but Aunt Esther wouldn’t let her. “Auntie, I have made my disinterest in him apparent. He won’t pursue me any further.”

  She didn’t tell her aunt that she’d given him a kiss, under coercion. She couldn’t tell her that without worrying her even more so.

  “You are an utter fool if you think a man like him will give up so easily. He is his father’s son.”

  “Auntie-”

  “I want you to entertain his affections,” Aunt Esther interjected.

  Loraine blinked in surprise. “Pardon?”

  “I want you to make him fall in love with you.” She spoke in such a hard, unwavering voice. “So that we can teach him and his father a lesson. They cannot treat women as they do.”

  “We hardly know him,” Loraine reminded him. “What if he is not like his father?”

  “He has already shown his character! And having been raised by that man, I have no doubt that he is cut from the same cloth.”

  Loraine was not a fool as her aunt had professed. She knew that this wasn’t about protecting themselves. It was about revenge.

  Resolved, she lifted her chin a little higher and leveled her aunt with a firm stare. “I have no interest in playing with a man’s heart, auntie. No interest at all.”

  “What are you sayin
g?” Her aunt said, with a horrified look.

  “That I will not do it.”

  Her aunt looked like she was about to scream. She pursed her lips like a child barely holding in a tantrum. But before she could find any words to shout at her niece, she burst into tears and ran out of the library.

  Watching her leave, Loraine felt a sharp pang of guilt. “Auntie!” She called after her, and took a step to follow, then stopped. She didn’t know what to say to comfort her aunt, and she knew better than to try.

  Chapter 8

  Miss Loraine Beauchamp

  With a soft exhale, Loraine sat down by the window and looked out across the grounds for a while. She tried to read, to distract herself from thoughts of her aunt being so upset. But she couldn’t. The words on the page wouldn’t register with her.

  After a couple of hours, she huffed out a breath and put the book aside again.

  Shaking her head, she went looking for her aunt.

  She found her in the drawing room, with the curtains drawn and the fire on. It was so hot that Loraine thought the walls must be sweating.

  Aunt Esther was staring into the flames, rather dramatically.

  Loraine stood in front of the fire, blocking her aunt’s stare. “Auntie.” But her aunt wouldn’t look at her. Exasperated, Loraine went down onto her knees beside her aunt’s chair and took one of her hands between hers. “Please talk to me, Auntie.”

  “I do not want to talk to you,” Aunt Esther said.

  “You are asking too much of me.”

  Her aunt laughed. It was an eerie sound. “I am asking too much? After all I’ve done for you? You have some nerve, niece.”

  That stung.

  Loraine looked down at her aunt’s old, wrinkled hand. Not for the first time, she thought about what would have happened to her if her aunt hadn’t taken her in.

  This was a card that Aunt Esther played often, because it always worked. For a while, the crackle of the fire was the only sound in the room.

  “What would you have me do?” Loraine murmured, at last.

  Finally, her aunt looked down at her. She was smiling from ear to ear. “I knew you’d come around,” she said.

  Loraine felt dread settle in her belly.

  ***

  Lord Philip Everton, Marquess of Blackhill

  Philip woke late the following morning, with a nasty hangover. He went downstairs with a lag in his step, rubbing at his eyes.

  “It’s late to rise,” George said, though there wasn’t any reprimand in his voice. “Are you feeling okay?”

  Philip smiled a little and nodded. This was more like his brother. Endlessly kind, even when he had no cause to be. He couldn’t begrudge his brother for being angry the night before. After all, they’d been close before Philip had left.

  As the older brother, Philip had been extremely protective of George. He’d always thought of him as being too sweet-tempered for this world. And far too sweet-tempered for his father.

  To keep George from taking the brunt of father’s temper, Philip had become increasingly rebellious. So that instead of their father berating George for being soft, he was too busy berating Philip for misbehaving.

  Philip could only imagine what it must have been like to be here with father, alone, in the wake of mother’s death. “I’m okay,” he said, as he poured himself some strong coffee. “Just sore in the head.”

  George nodded and looked down at the cup of tea he was holding. “I’m sorry for what I said last night,” he murmured. “I am glad you’re back. Truly, I am.”

  Philip smiled softly and sadly. He shook his head. “Don’t apologize. I understand why you said what you did. I don’t blame you for it.”

  George smiled gratefully and took a sip of his tea. They were silent for a few moments, standing opposite each other and drinking from their cups.

  “I suppose you heard about Edgar,” George said.

  Just like that, so quickly, the peacefulness between them was shattered. The memory of Edgar’s death was a catalyst to every unchecked and irrational feeling brewing inside of him. Like anger.

  “I did,” he answered.

  “I led the funeral,” George said, entirely unaware of what he was brewing in Philip.

  George led the funeral. Philip tried to imagine it. Tried to imagine George, who’d only met Edgar a handful of times, being such a key figure in his funeral.

  While Philip wasn’t even in attendance. “Did you think to tell me?” Philip snapped, without even a lick of reason. “Did you think to tell me that he’d passed?”

  George blinked at him, confused. “I tried, Philip. But we couldn’t reach you. We didn’t know where you were.”

  Of course, he’d already known that.

  George didn’t even speak with any accusation in his voice. It was just the sad and ugly truth. Without another word, Philip turned towards the door and picked up his coat. He didn’t know where he meant to go, just that he had to.

  George followed him into the foyer. “Philip,” he called.

  Philip stopped walking but didn’t look back at his brother. “What?”

  “Mother’s death was a lot to process. More for you than for anyone else.”

  Because of what he’d done. George didn’t say it, because he didn’t need to and because he wasn’t heartless. “But you can’t avoid doing so forever. Not with mother, and not with Edgar.”

  “I don’t need your advice. I’m not one of your sheep, priest,” Philip replied, tersely.

  He heard George say his name, softly, once more. But he was already out the door.

  Philip didn’t really know where he meant to go until he arrived at the cemetery. He saw a couple of mourners laying down flowers, but the place was mostly abandoned. He thought, as he walked amongst the graves, that it was a bleak place to lay Edgar down.

  When he found the grave he was looking for, he stood over it for a long time.

  His tombstone said, Beloved friend.

  Philip knew that this was the moment that should compel him to cry. He hadn’t done so since he’d heard the news, but he’d been waiting on it so that he could relieve this terrible pressure in his chest.

  But his eyes were dry as the desert sand.

  And instead of sadness, all he felt was that brewing anger. He should be thinking of Edgar, but instead he thought of Miss Loraine Beauchamp. The woman responsible.

  Philip sat down beside the grave, thinking until his brain hurt. He stared at the tombstone all the while.

  Though he’d been drunk when he made the bet the night before, he hadn’t woken with any less commitment to it. A commitment which grew steadily as he stared at Edgar’s grave.

  Chapter 9

  Lord Philip Everton, Marquess of Blackhill

  After several hours, Philip stood. Sitting here was unbearable, because his current mindset required action and movement. He needed to cast his attention elsewhere because the pain in his heart, which continued to go unseen, was insufferable.

  So he left the cemetery, with every intention of finding out everything he could about Miss Loraine Beauchamp.

  ***

  Miss Loraine Beauchamp

  When Mrs. Barrow came to tell her that someone had come to see her, Loraine didn’t have the faintest idea who it might be. She went downstairs with a little wariness in her step, until she saw the gentleman standing in the foyer.

  The moment she saw his face, she went still on the staircase. She started to smile, then covered the remaining space between them quickly so that she could embrace him.

  “Tristan,” she breathed. Pink in the cheeks, as ever, he smiled broadly and embraced her in return. “You did not tell me you were coming.”

  “I wanted to surprise you,” he said. “Are you surprised?”

  “You know I am! Come inside. Let’s go to the library and talk.”

  Loraine hadn’t seen Tristan in three years, since he’d last come to Louisiana. They’d spent three wonderful weeks together, talking
about Latin and Ancient Greek.

  Separating from him when he had to return to England had been difficult for her. Because he was, perhaps, one of her only friends.

  It had astounded her aunt, when Tristan and Loraine had started spending time together, that she would fraternize so much with a gentleman.

  In fact, they’d argued about it horribly during those few weeks that Tristan had been in Louisiana. In the end, Loraine had insisted that Aunt Esther could make up her mind about him once she properly met him.