Seducing The Vengeful Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Lucinda Nelson

  “If the physician finds that Amelia is with child,” Teresa replied, gazing down at her hands. “I will have to move out.”

  “Let us see first,” Thomas replied. “Amelia, he is waiting to see you.”

  Rising, Amelia paused beside Theresa’s chair, smiling down at her. “We have room enough for you, sweetheart, even if we have children. Please do not fret.”

  Watching the two of them leave, Teresa felt both her guilt and anxiety over the thought of attending the ball rise. “If I don’t find a husband I will be forever a burden to them”

  Restless, she stood up to pace to the tall window on the other side of the room that faced the London street outside. Carriages and wagons rolled past in the wide avenue below as pedestrians strolled along the sidewalks. Not far away, the tall trees of Regent’s Park rose over the tops of the townhouses that lined the thoroughfare. “Is my husband out there somewhere?” she mused.

  An hour later, Teresa sat in a chair in the drawing room as the doctor examined her, Amelia sitting nearby as a chaperone. Even as the small man asked her questions about her diet, her anxiety levels, her breathing, Teresa had no need to inquire as to Amelia’s state of health. Gazing past the physician’s shoulder, she observed Amelia’s happy smile and glowing eyes.

  Even as the man listened to her breathing and her heart, Teresa felt an attack coming on. Her throat tightened until she felt she might suffocate, her palms grew damp and her pulse pounded in her head. The doctor frowned.

  “You seem to be having at attack now,” he said, his fingers on her wrist to gauge her heart rate.

  Teresa nodded, unable to speak past the tension in her throat. She struggled to breathe, drawing in only small amounts of air. Spots danced behind her eyes and she closed them, concentrating on the simple act of drawing in one breath after the other. At long last, the tightness in her throat relaxed a fraction.

  “I believe you only had these when you were surrounded by people, Miss Wolcott,” he said, sitting back and watching her closely. “What brought this on?”

  With a faint flutter of her fingers toward Amelia, Teresa tried to smile. “She is with child, is she not?” she whispered. “I’m going to be an aunt.”

  “That news should not alarm you.”

  Teresa shook her head slightly. “But now I have to attend parties and balls until I can find a husband.”

  “Teresa, no,” Amelia said, leaving her chair to crouch beside Amelia’s. “Do not put such pressure on yourself. Yes, I am with child, and I want you to be happy, not filled with dread that you must move out. Thomas and I love you.”

  “I know you do. But I cannot be such a burden on the pair of you. Not now. Not ever.”

  “You are not, and never will be, a burden.”

  “I am. And I will attend this ball if it kills me.”

  Chapter 2

  Lord Solomon Eli Dunn, the Duke of Thornehill

  He stood with his back to the wall, watching the dancers circulate on the floor in time to the music. The vast ball room, under the vaulted roof belonging to the Baron and Baroness of Whittaker, held hundreds of guests this night, and it seemed that the only topic of conversation among them was himself.

  Lord Solomon Dunn, the Duke of Thornehill, smiled inwardly, yet he let nothing of his amusement show in his countenance.

  He stood alone because no one at the ball wanted to be seen talking to him. He only received an invitation because of his very high status among the ton.

  He only accepted the invitation because he desperately needed to talk to the one man who would rather shoot him on sight before speaking a word to him.

  Solomon watched Thomas Wolcott and his wife dance on the floor, their eyes only for one another in the avid way only newlyweds could gaze at each other.

  Snorting softly at the sight, he wondered how long before their wedded bliss dissolved into dislike and bitter arguments. “There is no such thing as love,” he muttered. “Only making love.”

  “Your Grace?”

  Startled out of his thoughts, he found a liveried footman at his elbow with a silver tray filled with glasses of wine. Setting his nearly empty glass on it, he picked up another, and nodded his thanks. The footman bowed and moved on, offering the drinks to the Earl of Mowbray and his small circle of cronies.

  Seeing the Earl’s contemptuous eyes on him, Solomon lifted his glass toward him as though toasting him, then sipped from it.

  “Bloody moron,” he grumbled under his breath. “I know you blackmailed your father-in-law into selling you his lands, yet you dare stare at me with judgmental eyes. Casting the first stone, are you?”

  Observing Thomas Wolcott and his pretty wife exit the dance floor, Solomon edged his way toward them, wending his way through the milling socialites, ignoring the glances of appraisal or shock. His skin was far too thick by now to be moved by what the ton thought of him, and cared even less about how his behavior scandalized them.

  “Mr. Wolcott.”

  Thomas Wolcott turned at the sound of his name, a pleasant social smile in place. The smile faded as he caught sight of Solomon approaching.

  His brows then furrowed, his face grew tight with loathing as Solomon came to a halt in front of him. “May I have a word with you?” Solomon asked.

  Thomas bowed stiffly and his wife curtsied, her own eyes wide as she glanced between Solomon and Thomas. “No,” Thomas replied, his voice cold. “Your Grace.”

  With every eye in the wide hall on them, Thomas turned his back. His hand on his wife’s arm, he guided her away and across the room where they disappeared into the mix of people. Solomon grit his teeth in anger, his face expressionless, neutral, refusing to permit the watching cream of polite society to realize how the snub affected him.

  If I didn’t need your help so badly, I’d leave you to your rancor. Solomon did need his help, however, and thoroughly understood Wolcott’s animosity. Nor did he blame the man. If Wolcott were not the best investigator in all of London – Turning, still holding his glass of wine, he slammed headlong into a young lady half his size.

  Under the impact, his wine sloshed onto his shirt and waistcoat. A startled oath sprang from his lips before he could halt it, and he instinctively reached his hand out to steady the young miss before she stumbled and fell backward from the recoil.

  “I am so sorry,” Solomon told her. “I fear I was not looking where I was going.”

  The woman tried to smile up at him, but by the tautness in her expression, her eyes that all but bulged from her face and the red in her cheeks, he suspected she suffered from something other than being run over by the Devil Duke. Concern filled him. “I say, are you all right?”

  She offered him the tense smile again and an awkward curtsey, and said in a choked voice, “I – Your Grace.”

  Turning, she all but fled from the ball room under the speculative stares of all who had witnessed the encounter, and left Solomon to wonder what was wrong. While he was used to the snubs and contempt of his fellow peers, that girl didn’t act like she was running because she despised him. It almost appeared as though she could not breathe.

  He could not walk away from her. Despite the fact that she looked familiar to him, he could not find it in himself to leave her alone if she was in some kind of difficulty.

  None of the well dressed and well heeled people in the room would act on her behalf, he realized. Thus, if anyone felt concern for her welfare, it would be the Duke of Thornehill.

  Striding across the room in the direction she had vanished, Solomon found a short hallway with others branching off of it that led to the rest of the mansion.

  He had been at the house often enough in the past to know that at the far end was a door that opened onto the spreading garden. As there were not other people in sight, he suspected that perhaps the woman had gone there.

  Solomon located her by the sound of her harsh ragged gasps. The garden was lit by a few lanterns, but primarily covered by darkness and long shadows. Hoping to not fr
ighten her by appearing out of the night wearing all black, he cautiously stepped toward her and peered around a hedgerow. “Excuse me, miss,” he said, his voice low. “I have no wish to startle you.”

  “It’s all right,” he heard her reply, her own still hoarse. “I heard – your footsteps.”

  Solomon strode around to find her seated on a bench, her breasts heaving as she fought to breathe. “I came to see if you are in need of assistance.”

  In the faint light, he witnessed the lines of strain in her neck, her skin now waxy pale. She recognized him instantly, and rose to curtsey. More worried about her health than her show of deference, he waved her back down. “Please, that’s not necessary in your state. How might I help?”

  Returning to her bench, she shook her head. “I will be – all right. In a – moment.”

  Not liking how he loomed over her, Solomon took a backward step and put his hands behind his back. “I know you from somewhere, do I not?”

  The young woman nodded, offering him a smile. “The boy – in the market.”

  Solomon burst into a short laugh. “Ah, I remember you now. The little spitfire who was ready to rip a new orifice into that shopkeeper.”

  “Yes. Your Grace.”

  Frowning slightly, he made a small gesture toward her. “I do not remember then that you had breathing difficulties. At the time, your lungs worked perfectly.”

  “I suffer – anxiety – when in crowds,” she answered, her breathing still labored but appeared to be smoothing out.

  Her color took on a more normal hue, he noticed. “I try to stay calm, but I cannot always manage it. I am so sorry I spilled your wine on you.”

  “Bah, hardly worth commenting on.” He smiled briefly. “One advantage to wearing black.”

  At last, she took a deep breath, and stood up. “Thank you for your concern, Your Grace. And your company.”

  “You have the advantage it would appear.”

  “I am Teresa Wolcott.”

  Her name jolted him, and he kept his facial muscles still with an effort. “A pleasure, Miss Wolcott. Ah, excuse me, but you do not seem overly worried about being seen with me.”

  “That is quite true. I am not afraid to be seen talking to you.”

  “May I ask why that is?”

  Her smile widened into a grin. “I am a witness to your kinder side. Besides, I am no stranger to the gossips. They talk about me almost as much as they do you.”

  “How so? You seem a proper young lady to me.”

  “I wear my hair down in public and do not hesitate to air my opinions.”

  “Neither of which is gossip or scandal worthy in my book. How often do these, panic episodes, occur, Miss Wolcott?”

  She glanced away. “More often than I would like, Your Grace.”

  “I would like to share something I learned in my travels,” Solomon said, glancing around for any potential witnesses. “It may help in such future events.”

  “Something that would stop me from panicking when too many people are around me?” she asked, her voice eager.

  “Yes, that is the intent. However, I must touch you. Do I have your permission?”

  Miss Wolcott suddenly flushed. “Well, it is improper, Your Grace. But if it helps I’ll try anything.”

  His hands open, his palms out, Solomon stepped toward her. “It is a simple thing, really, to massage the neck and shoulders. It does not just relax the muscles, but can assist in many aspects of stress. May I?”

  “Yes.”

  He ambled behind her and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. Immediately, he felt the tense knots under her flesh, and worked them with his wrists and thumbs. “When one is stressed,” he murmured, “the body tightens, which in turns adds to more stress. Release some of that, and the rest follows.”

  “This is – wonderful. I cannot believe how good this feels.”

  “I traveled in Asia,” Solomon went on, gently yet firmly massaging the knots and kinks from her neck and shoulders. “They make a study of the human body, and practice a medicinal use of needles.”

  “Needles?”

  “Yes. I do not remember what they called it, however. The needles release energies that make the body ill.”

  “That is fascinating, Your Grace.”

  Letting his hands drop, Solomon gazed down at her as turned around, flexing her neck and shoulders. “Perhaps we might make a test of this treatment?”

  “How?”

  “Come back inside and dance with me.”

  This Book Will be Live Soon!

  A Wicked Scandal for the Bluestocking – A Preview

  Chapter 1

  Miss Charlene Ellington

  Miss Charlene Ellington knew that she wasn’t meant to be out in Raven’s Hollow on her own. It was unseemly for a woman to come out to this cool and damp bit of forest all by herself.

  It was dangerous. Who was she supposed to ask to chaperone her, though? Most people gave Raven’s Hollow a pass.

  It was spooky, they said. Haunted. Charlene very much doubted that, or at least, she had never come across any reason to believe the place to be haunted.

  There were plenty of hazards, from careless missteps to wild animals, but as long as one was careful and respectful, well, she at least had never had any trouble.

  The only person that she could have asked to accompany her was her father, the eminent Dr. Ellington of Bath, but that would defeat the purpose of her being out here collecting herbs.

  These were meant for his homemade medicines, and Charlene was here not only because she tended to be quicker at the task of gathering, but because her father’s time was better spent in town looking after the patients in his care.

  Of course, Charlene and her father would never agree on that front. She was sure he knew, logically, that Charlene was right to do this, but he was her father and protective of her.

  He would never consent to her being out there on her own. If she were a son, that would be one thing, but she wasn’t, and she had no right to act as one. Charlene could practically hear him in her head now: It just isn’t proper, Charlene.

  He always stopped short of reminding her that if she did enough things that were considered improper, it would be impossible to find a husband for her.

  No one wanted to marry a wild hellion, that was what her mother had always said. Just as well; Charlene wouldn’t marry anyone who thought that going out to gather herbs meant that she was a hellion.

  No threat of argument could keep her from slipping away that morning. She would go crazy if she spent another day cooped up in the house with tutors – or worse, alone! Besides, she might as well make herself useful in whatever way that she could. Things had been hard for her father as of late.

  Charlene was startled from her contemplation of a particularly interesting vine when she heard a long, drawn-out groan. Immediately, she tensed, cocking her head to the side in case the sound came again. It hadn’t been an animal that made that sound, she decided. No, it must have been a human. A human in pain, too, if she knew anything.

  The sound didn’t come again, and there was a part of her that wondered if she had only imagined it. Maybe it had been nothing more than the wind blowing through the creaky trees.

  Charlene wasn’t known for her imagination, though. She took after her father, the doctor: all focused practicality. Not only that, but she knew that if there really was a man lying around here in pain, there was no way that she could abandon him. That just wasn’t in her nature.

  She searched the area, looking for anything that might help her in her search. There, a footprint in the mud! Flattened grass, too wide of a path and straight for it to have been made by an animal. It didn’t take her long to find a boy, nearly a man, lying down in the brush and cradling his left ankle.

  For a moment, all Charlene could do was stare at him. It was rare for anyone to venture into this part of the wood, let alone one so finely dressed as he.

  From the discarded bow and arrow shea
th, he had been out hunting, or at least practicing his archery. Most people coming to Bath came for relaxation at the spa, not to go bushwhacking through Raven’s Hollow.

  He must have had no idea what he was getting himself into, Charlene thought, shaking her head.

  She stepped closer to him, wondering what had happened to his ankle. A twist? A break, even? He looked up at her with his cerulean eyes, and for a moment, Charlene could barely even think, lost in those deep pools of emotion.

  Her breath caught, and she felt her heart beat a hair faster. She pushed those thoughts aside, though, remembering how Dr. Ellington worked with his patients.