An Accidental Seduction (17 page)

I
t was morning. Still, Sean paced his rented room like a rabid hound. He’d been doing so since shortly after he was able to straighten, and he winced now, feeling another twinge in his offended nether parts. If he heard footfalls in the hall, he would step out, casual as a maimed bear, to determine the cause. He had asked the inn’s employees, again, as casually as humanly possible, if Lady Tilmont had made an appearance, but they assured him she had not.

Which meant she was in her rented room. With her husband. The thought sent an ache of another kind shivering through his system. If she had gone elsewhere before dawn, he would have known it, for he had prowled the halls most of the night. Now he was frustrated and aching and exhausted.

The sound of a door opening made him spurt for his own. He reached the hall just in time to watch the cause of his impending insanity step out of her room. In an instant he was beside her.

“What the hell were you doing all night?” he gritted.

Never stopping, she raised a haughty brow at him. His balls quivered at her expression, but when she turned away, he grabbed her arm. Bloody hell, he was a brute for punishment.

“I think that is hardly any concern of yours, is it, now?” she said, and lifting her lavender skirt in her right hand, yanked her arm from his grasp and strode for the stairs. He followed like a demented puppy.

“It damned well
is
my concern,” he hissed. “I happen to be—” His words failed as she glared at him. Good saints, she could make a boulder quake.

“What?” she asked, voice perfectly even, perfectly modulated. “What are you, Wicklow? A liar and a cheat, surely. But what else?”

“Listen, I didn’t know—”

From below, an elderly gentleman glanced up from his task of buttering a muffin.

Sean bobbed in an ingratiating manner and raised his voice a hair. “Shall I bring the carriage round, then, my lady?”

“Yes,” she said, gaze never leaving his. “Do that, Weakwick.”

He refrained from gritting his teeth. From demanding answers. Or kissing her speechless. “Perhaps my lady would like to stroll down to the mews herself. ’Tis a bonny morning, it is.”

She gave him a preening smile. “If I wished to walk to the mews, I wouldn’t have a stable boy, now would I, Wickendick?”

Sean flicked his gaze to the patrons below. They all seemed to be engaged in conversation, minding their own business. “Come with me or I’ll tell Tilmont the truth here and now,” he warned, “Come, or I’ll tell
everyone
the truth.”

An old woman having a bowl of stewed prunes raised an inquisitive brow at them.

Clarette’s nostrils flared, but she acquiesced. “Perhaps a bit of air might be in order after all.”

It seemed to take forever to make their way outdoors, longer still to get out of sight, hidden away in an empty stall in the nearby stable. Gallagher trapped her between his arms, hands flat against the rough-hewn planks behind her.

“What the devil happened last night?” He was all but frothing at the mouth. Where the hell had his damned pride gone off to? Or lacking that, a modicum of sanity. He had no right to question another man’s wife. But she wasn’t a wife. Was she?

“Don’t you remember?” she asked. She didn’t look trapped. In fact, she looked all but bored. “You took advantage of me.”

“Took…” The word popped out of his mouth. “Me?” His voice was almost squeaky. “Do you think me mad? Do
you think I don’t know you distracted me with your…” He motioned wildly toward her scrumptious body. “…
everything,
so that we wouldn’t talk about who you are. About what you’ve done. About where you’ve stowed the body of the real Lady Tilmont.”

She raised a brow. “Stowed the body?” Her tone was absolutely steady. She gave him a look that made his scrotum quiver. “As a matter of fact, Wickerhound, I think you
quite
mad.”

“Am I? Am I!” he rasped.

“Yes,” she said, and slipping under his arm, strode away.

“Very well.” He nodded, storming after her. “Maybe I am. But if that’s the case, then—”

“What?” she snarled, spinning toward him. “What? It’s my fault? You blame
me
?” She stepped toward him. Certain body parts strongly suggested that he retreat, but he couldn’t quite manage to do so. Something about manhood and masculinity, and what the hell difference did it make if she
did
beat him to a bloody pulp? He no longer doubted that she was capable of it. He just couldn’t seem to care. “Did I ask you to prostitute yourself? Did I ask you to come into my life at all?”

He scowled, eyes steady on hers. “Perhaps not, lass. But you
wanted
me to take you. And I agreed, despite your caustic tongue.”

The stable went silent. Her face went pale. “If you’ll
excuse me,” she whispered, eyes downcast, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than her forgiveness. He couldn’t help but step forward. Couldn’t help but touch her face.

“I’m sorry. Please…” He searched for words that weren’t there. “Please tell me you didn’t lie with Tilmont.”

Her gaze met his, blue and tortured.

A dozen hot emotions shot through him. “Tell me you’re not his wife.” His voice was raspy.

Her face crumbled. “I’m—”

“Clarette?” The baron’s voice rang through the stables.

Her eyes darted to the doorway and back, pleading for silence.

Sean gritted his teeth, wanting madly to step forward, to tell the truth, to admit all. But there was anguish in her face, desperation in her eyes. “Go,” he said. He expected her to step out of the stall, but instead she glanced up, then jumped. Hooking her hands over the top of the planks, she pulled herself silently over. He was still speechless when he heard her voice from the other side.

“My lord.” The stall door beside the one he occupied creaked as she pushed it open. “I didn’t wish to disturb you. I thought you’d sleep well into the afternoon.”

“After last night I feel…” Tilmont paused, sounding euphoric. Sean ground his teeth and tightened his fists. “…refreshed.”

“How wonderful.”

“But what of you?” he asked. “What were you doing out and about so early this fine morn?”

“I just…” There was a shrug in her voice. “I but went for a stroll and found myself here.”

“In a box stall?”

“The mare inside caught my eye. She’s quite beautiful.”

“Yes?” The baron’s footfalls echoed across the hard-packed floor, never reaching the stall where Sean remained alone. “Ah, I favor a nice gray myself, but I didn’t know you entertained an interest in horses.”

“There’s much you don’t know of me.” She sounded bright, young, flirty.

Sean closed his eyes against the infusion of pain.

“I’ve been considering the same thing,” Tilmont said. “Indeed, I was thinking I might begin to remedy that this very day.”

“So you’ll be returning to Knollcrest with me?”

“Knollcrest? I don’t see why. So long as we’re here, why not enjoy the sights of Londonderry?”

“But I thought you wished for me to care for your estate.”

“’Twas my father’s wishes,” he said, “and I begin to think I’ve been betwattled by his wishes long enough.” There was a pause during which Sean imagined him kissing her hand. His stomach coiled up tight. “Come, let me show you London, and you to London.”

“I don’t think—”

“Good. We’ll not think a’tall. Not for days on end. We’ll do naught but dance and eat and drive about the square till everyone from here to Istanbul insists you’re the most beautiful woman in all of Londonderry.”

“But I’m not—”

“Hush now. I go to fetch the driver.”

“Who? Gallagher?”

“Who else?”

“I…” Words seemed to fail her for a second. Sean was glad to know it could happen. “Do you think that’s wise…under the circumstances?” Her voice had dropped low. The baron’s did the same.

“Under the circumstances that I hired him to seduce you?” he asked.

Sweet saints, the dolt had actually told her that? Had absolutely confirmed her suspicions? Knowing that, he’d been lucky to have survived the morning. Of course, the day was still young.

“I’m terribly sorry for my mistakes, Clarette,” said the baron. “But I’ve turned over a new leaf. You’ll see. I’ve no idea what I was thinking, promising him you, for now I find I’m entirely unwilling to share.”

“Then why not just give him a bob and send him packing?” she suggested.

“A bob,” he said, and laughed. “No, my love, I’ll not treat him so shabbily. The man needs a job. I owe him
that much at least. Unless…He didn’t treat you poorly did he?”

“Poorly?” Her voice was weak.

“I’ll not forgive myself if he was too forceful on my account.”

“Forceful? No. No, he…No.”

“So that’s a no then?” he asked, and laughed.

“Yes.” Her voice sounded weak, but Gallagher very much doubted she had the decency to feel shame, though she’d ridden him like a well-favored jockey. The memory made him feel a little weak.

“And you did not find him attractive?”

“Well, in a brutish sort of way, perhaps.”

“Brutish…” he said, and laughed. “And here I thought he was a maid’s wildest dreams. I’ll fetch him. You can stay and converse with the gray if you—”

“No!” She all but yelled the word, then cleared her throat and smoothed her tone. “I believe I’ll accompany you back to the inn. It seems I left my reticule there.”

“Ahh, very well, then. I just thought you might wish to remain here and admire the mare.”

“At second glance I think she may be a bit cat-hammed.”

“Cat-hammed you say. Well, then, I’ll have to find you another mount. A nice gelding, perhaps. And clothes. We can’t have the most beautiful woman in all of England parading about in yesterday’s gown, can we? Indeed…”

His voice trailed off.

Inside the stall, Sean fisted his hands and dropped his head against the rough planks behind him. Bloody hell, he should never have come here. He should have let his brother handle his own troubles. It wasn’t as if Alastar were a child. If he was old enough to get involved with a woman like Clarette Tilmont, he was old enough to work out his problems.

But ever since their mother’s death, he had felt responsible for the lad. Had done his best to care for the boy.

But not anymore. He was done. There was no reason for him to return to the inn. No reason to torture himself by driving the Tilmonts around London as if he were their damned lackey.

And yet he knew he would.

He glanced toward the door and gritted his teeth. He would stay, for whether she was baroness or courtesan or raucous street vendor, he was smitten.

S
avaana felt as if she was in hell. Or perhaps she simply
should
be; not only was she living a lie, she was cheating on her husband who wasn’t really her husband, but her sister’s husband.

Or was she entirely wrong? Had she conjured this whole debacle in her mind? Was Clarette just what she seemed, a spoiled heiress who had no connection whatsoever to her? Had her own need for family driven her to this?

“That’s Mr. Dumfrey,” Tilmont said now, leaning in. He had hired a vis-à-vis, saying only an alkithole traveled in a tilbury anymore. Sometimes Savaana didn’t understand a word he was saying.

In the driver’s seat of their rented vehicle, Gallagher kept the rented hack at a brisk trot.

“No title, but he’s dreadful wealthy. ’Tis said he pays his mistress three thousand pounds a year.”

“Oh?” She was doing her best to focus on the
conversation, to smile at the right moments, to be gossipy and inquisitive. But her time had run out. She was supposed to meet Clarette near Knollcrest in two days’ time. What would happen if she failed to appear? What—

“Oh?”
Tilmont said, and laughed. “Is that all you have to say?” Smiling, he lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. “For a courtesan you seem sadly disinterested in money.”

“Former courtesan,” she reminded him, and he smiled again.

“That’s right, you are all mine now, are you not, my love?”

“Yes.” She smiled and refrained from glancing toward the Irishman. “We are wed, after all.”

“And I never did get you a suitable wedding gift.”

Guilt swarmed her anew. “Oh, my lord, you needn’t—”

“Richard, please.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My given name, ’tis Richard. ’Twould be a thrill to hear it on your lips.”

“Richard.” She said the name softly, then jerked as the vehicle struck an unusually deep rut. Struggling to right herself, she managed to refrain from glaring at the driver. “You needn’t buy me anything.”

But Tilmont only laughed, and the hell continued.

That afternoon found them at Mrs. Ball’s dress shop, where Savaana was measured and prodded and poked.

“Such a lovely bride you have, my lord,” Mrs. Ball crooned, speaking from behind the curtain that separated the alterations area from the remainder of the shop.

The woman had coaxed her into a midnight blue gown that boasted lace frilling at the low-cut bodice. Scrolled silver embroidery etched the hem and tight-fitting sleeves. It was ungodly itchy.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Tilmont said.

“The morning dress you chose will be divine on her certainly, but I’d like you to see her in this as well,” Mrs. Ball announced, and swept the curtain aside with dramatic flare.

He smiled when he saw her. “Lovely,” he said, but his face looked a bit gray, his eyes bloodshot.

“Is something wrong, my lord?” Savaana asked.

“No. No, not at all. Not when I see you thus.”

Mrs. Ball preened. “She is a vision, isn’t she? The piece was commissioned for a certain lady who simply
needed
it for a soirée, but she never returned for it.” Her nostrils pinched, but she rallied. “’Tis far more fetching on your lady, though. The bold color accents her eyes and will set her apart from those pastel others. Don’t you agree?”

“Absolutely.”

“Perhaps we could do this later,” Savaana said, watching the baron with some misgivings. He’d looked healthier while vomiting into the chamber pot. She wasn’t sure of the rules of sisterhood, but she was quite certain it would be in rather bad taste to kill her only sibling’s husband while the other was away. “After we’ve had a bite to eat.”

“Luncheon, what an excellent idea,” said Mrs. Ball, and clapped her plump hands as if she had just invented food. “We’ve taken her measurements. It would be easy as falling asleep to pinch this little confection in for her while you eat.”

“I really don’t need more garments,” Savaana said, but Mrs. Ball was not to be countermanded. She had a nobleman in her talons and was not about to let him go until he had coughed up a few pounds at least.

“She could wear it this very night,” said the dressmaker, all but ignoring Savaana. “You
will
be going to the ball at Windfell, will you not?”

“I’m not certain,” Tilmont said. “I received an invitation, but that was before—”

“But you must go!” Mrs. Ball insisted. “You absolutely must. It will be the perfect place to showcase your lovely bride.”

“We really should be returning home,” Savaana insisted, but the seamstress flopped a dismissive hand at her.

“Home will still be there tomorrow,” she said,
and Tilmont concurred with a laugh, looking a little brighter.

“We’ll take it, then,” he told the proprietress. “You can have it ready by this evening, you say?”

“I’ll have it stitched and pressed by the time you’ve finished your tea.”

After that, Tilmont spent some time paying his bill and extolling Mrs. Ball’s expertise, but finally they were exiting the shop.

“I appreciate your generosity, my lord,” Savaana said, champing at the proverbial bit as he settled her hand in the crook of his arm. “Truly I do, but I must insist that we return to Knollcrest.”

He laughed as they strolled toward the vis-à-vis. “And I insist that you not take your responsibilities so much to heart.”

She scowled. “I worry for your health. You don’t look well.”

“While you look enchanting,” he said, and smiled into her eyes.

Gallagher was staring at them from his perch on the rented carriage. She could feel his attention like the glare of the sun and took a half a step away from Tilmont, lest the other launch from his seat like a loosed cannonball.

“I worry for your heart,” Savaana said.

“It’s not my heart that troubles me,” he said, leaning in to smile down at her. “It’s the drink.”

She scowled.

He smiled wanly. “Or the lack thereof.”

“Oh,” she said, and realized belatedly that his hands were unsteady as he turned and kissed her knuckles.

“Perhaps it isn’t so simple to be off the blue ruin as I had imagined.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and found she meant it.

“That I’m a lush?”

“That you’re in pain.”

“It’s not pain…exactly,” he said, and smiled. “Besides, your beauty makes me long to be better. Now…” he rallied, tone brisk, “where would you like to dine?”

“I still think—”

“Chez Henri, it is,” he said, and handed her toward the carriage. But he stopped. “Mr. Gallagher, the step please.”

Savaana glanced at the Irishman. His eyes bore into hers.

“Mr. Gallagher?” Tilmont said, and Sean turned toward him as if just noticing his existence.

“Yes…my lord.”

“You cannot expect a woman of our lady’s caliber to climb aboard like a sailor on leave. Fetch the step, if you please.”

“Of course, my lord,” Sean said, and descended the vehicle, but as he set the little stool before Savaana, she dropped her reticule. Their hands inadvertently brushed.
For one endless moment electricity sizzled through her like wayward lightning. She stepped back as if seared, waiting to be burned to ash.

Tilmont watched the exchange but seemed completely oblivious to the emotions that swirled around them like storm clouds. “Thank you, my good man. Now up you go, dearling.”

And so the day continued without so much as a moment’s reprieve. There was lunch and a walk through Covent Garden, then back to Mrs. Ball’s for the gown. Little did Savaana know that the worst was yet to come.

Windfell was the size of a barley field, but lacked the bucolic charm even though it was set far from the city and surrounded by ancient woods. The house itself was graced with every foolish but expensive feature known to mankind, an elegantly etched tear bottle from Cairo, a red Indian’s war bonnet from the Americas.

Some hours before, Savaana had found a moment to stitch the rough-cut necklace into the hem of her gown, for her décolletage was far too low to hide it.

She held her head high, her shoulders back, as she entered the ballroom on her faux husband’s arm. They were introduced to the gathering by a man with enough starch in his bleached cravat to make a flag stand on end.

The Irishman remained with the vis-à-vis. He’d been practically silent the entire day. But his eyes had spoken
volumes. Most of it was profanity. And how could she blame him? She had become the epitome of everything she hated. Sneering at him. Lying to him, then accepting him into her bed. She almost snorted at the idea, for the truth was she’d all but
forced
him into her bed. And had done so moments before welcoming her supposed husband with open arms. Accepting his gifts, sharing a room.

Gallagher must think her the devil incarnate. And maybe he was right.

“He can’t take his eyes off you,” Tilmont said.

She snapped her gaze to him, breath stopped. “That’s not true,” she said. “He’s simply—” She stopped before flinging herself into the fires of stupidity. “Who might we be talking about?”

He laughed. “The duke, of course. But he’s hardly the only one enthralled.”

“The…” She tried to still the beating of her wild heart. “…duke?”

“The Duke of Landsgate. In the corner with the woman who looks like she swallowed a tuna. And there’s Lord Balesford. Near the table. The one drooling as he watches you.”

She glanced to the left, trying to find her bearings. There actually did seem to be someone drooling. “I think that might be a medical problem,” she said, and he laughed.

“I’m going to miss you.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in. She turned toward him, meeting his eyes. “What do you mean? Miss me when?”

For a moment he stared at her, and then he grinned lopsidedly. “I suppose I shouldn’t be so macabre. This affliction may not kill me. Perhaps I will only
wish
to die.”

“Don’t talk like that. I’ve known several people who have lived long and well with heart conditions.”

“It’s not my heart that worries me,” he said, and watched a flute of champagne wander past.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Holy hell, she was a terrible fake wife. Indeed, she had entirely forgotten about his alcoholism. “Listen. We don’t have to stay here. We could yet go—”

“Home. I know,” he said, and laughed again. “But honestly, the way the Irishman drives I think the trip might kill me well before we reached the edge of town.” He raised a brow at her. “You don’t suppose he’s hitting those holes a’purpose, do you?”

She was going to hell. She was sure of it, but gave Tilmont an innocent if somewhat sickly glance. “I can’t imagine why he would.”

“To keep us apart, perhaps?” he suggested.

She snapped her gaze to his, heart hurtling along like a frightened bunny’s. “Surely not! Why ever would he do
such a thing? He wouldn’t. That would make no sense.” She was babbling and couldn’t seem to stop. “That is to say, I barely know the man. I surely have no interest in him.” She fluttered a helpless hand. “And he has none in me. Indeed—”

“My love,” Tilmont said, voice sounding ever so casual against her frenetic rush, “every man here has an interest in you. Indeed, every man everywhere. Even the ones who can do little about it,” he added, and smiling at his own failings, kissed her hand, but when he straightened, he wobbled a little.

“My lord! Are you well? Can I get you anything?”

“Anything?” he asked, and watched the champagne tray pass again. “No, I think not. Far better that I keep my mind occupied elsewhere. Would you care to dance?”

She scowled. The reel had broken up and a waltz began. “I’m not particularly accomplished at the waltz,” she said.

“Ahh, but it matters little with a woman as lovely as you on my arm. Come,” he said, and led her onto the dance floor.

In truth, she had been dancing for as long as she could recall. Indeed, according to her grandfather, her grace was only surpassed by her sleight of hand. And though that particular talent was used only for magical tricks, she could imagine how this crowd would react if they knew of her inauspicious beginnings.

Still, the dance went well enough, though Tilmont seemed winded and a little shaky by the end of it.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to sit for a bit,” she said, though her nerves were jumping like frogs in a frying pan.

“There’s no need for you to humor me,” he said. “I’m quite capable of humoring myself. Indeed—” he began, but just then they were approached from behind.

“Lord Tilmont.”

They turned in unison. Tilmont smiled. “Lord Reardon, you look well.”

“And you look as dreadful as always,” said the other, “but your bride…” He opened his arms as if to encompass her. “This is your bride, isn’t it, and not some glamorous figment of my imaginings?”

“Clarette, my love,” Tilmont said, bowing a little. “I’d like you to meet Lord Reardon, the most irritating man in all of Christendom.”

“My pleasure,” Reardon said.

“Always a privilege to meet irritating men,” Savaana said, and they laughed on cue. How easy the nobility was to please. Not at all like entertaining a fractious village crowd.

There was a bit more small talk before Reardon asked her for a dance. Tilmont handed her off, looking more than a little relieved to find a seat alone, and she was escorted back onto the marble floor.

“So you’ve landed the notorious Lord Tilmont,” Reardon said as they moved sedately through the crowd.

“Notorious, is he?”

“Yes, quite, but I’ll wait for you to figure it out on your own. You seem a bright one.”

Savaana mulled that over until the dance came to an end.

“Look after him, won’t you?” Reardon said, and bowed as a tall gentleman appeared to her left.

She would have liked to excuse herself, but Tilmont was otherwise occupied, so she turned to the newcomer, who held her a little too tightly as they danced. She was glad when the song came to an end, but already there was another man waiting, standing a little behind.

“Might I cut in?” he asked. His voice evidenced either good breeding or a nasal condition.

“I believe we’ll take another spin,” said the tall lord, but the other pushed him aside.