An Accidental Seduction (6 page)

F
ifty years later Sean would never be certain why he did what he did.

True, he heard Emily coming even before she opened her mouth to call for her mistress. And yes, he realized the scandal that would ensue if they were found in such a compromising situation. But wasn’t that why he had come here in the first place? To cause scandal? To ruin her marriage? To ruin her
life
?

But in that fractured second when he heard the maid coming, he found he couldn’t do it. Maybe, in the end, he was trying to protect the baroness despite everything he knew of her. But maybe it was something far more sinister; perhaps it was not enough to have her found in his embrace. Perhaps even then, with her lips soft and warm against his, he wanted to see her completely crushed. Or maybe he simply wanted the opportunity to bed her before the charade ended.

Whatever the reason, he shoved her, without a moment’s hesitation, into the deepest shadows of the nearby
stall just as Emily bustled in. A loose-knit shawl covered her head and shoulders. She’d dragged the edge forward to shield her eyes from the glare of the lantern.

“My…Oh…if it ain’t the ’andsome Sean Gallagher ’isself. I didn’t see you there,” she said, and dropped the wrap from her strawberry curls.

With feigned nonchalance, Sean lifted a wooden bucket from a nearby peg and stepped more fully into the light. “I was just about to be finishing up chores. Is something amiss, lass?”

“Amiss? No. But something is a’missing,” she said, and laughed at her own wit, plump cheeks dimpling. She was a pretty girl, but he had always preferred more worldly wise women, experienced ladies who had every intention of using him and tossing him aside. He didn’t mind loving and leaving. Indeed, he was an expert at leaving, but quite ill-equipped at becoming jealous of his liaisons’ rich husbands or subsequent lovers. Indeed, as far as he knew, he was entirely incapable of jealousy.

“You’ve lost something, then?” he asked.

“The lady of the ’ouse has gone roving again.”

“You’ve misplaced the baroness?”

“’Twas not I who done the misplacing,” she said, and lowering her voice, leaned closer to be heard. “And just betwixt you, me, and the slop bucket, I say ’tis no great loss if she don’t never come toddling back.”

Sean resisted a smile, refrained from skimming his
gaze to the stall behind him, and hoped to hell the object of their discussion wouldn’t come barging out like a bull on a rampage at the maid’s waspish slurs. The baroness didn’t seem the type to suffer insults in silence.

“I take it you don’t care for her,” he said, and found that it gave him a certain amount of pleasure to know the woman who had ruined his family was just within hearing.

“I don’t, and I’d tell ’er that to ’er face, given the chance. She ain’t ’ad a good word to say since coming to Knollcrest.”

“And how long ago was that?”

“Ten and a half days,” said the maid, and sniffed.

“You’re counting?”

She canted her head at him in a sassy manner. “And not many more remaining, to my way of thinking.”

“Oh?”

She shrugged, glanced outside as if to make sure they weren’t overheard, then stepped closer and lowered her voice. “I ’eard she made a deal with the master.”

“The baron?” he asked, sotto voce and honestly intrigued.

“Nay,” she hissed, and catching his hand in an intimate grip, leaned closer still, the upper reaches of her round breasts just visible above her bodice. “The baron’s old sire.”

“What sort of deal?”

“I ’eard Gregors tell Margarite that if ’er ladyship
bears a rightful heir, she’ll gain her ’usband’s inheritance. And my lord’ll be left ’igh and dry. Old Gregors is to keep an eye on ’er to see if she sidles up to another, if you take my meaning.”

He was pretty sure he did.

She nodded sharply, important with her secret knowledge. “But the good baron will ’ave none of ’er even though ’e knows nothing of the arrangement.”

But he
did
know. In fact, that very arrangement was the reason the baron had hired him to come to Knollcrest, but that wasn’t the part of the story that particularly intrigued him. “So they’ve not…shared a bed?” For reasons entirely unknown to him, this unlikely news soared through his system like swallows in flight.

“Well, he left the very day he brought her to Knollcrest, didn’t he?”

“But that doesn’t necessarily mean—”

“My lord’s too good for the likes of ’er,” she said. “A thoughtful, kindly man. The very reverse of the lady, and ’andsome as the day is long.”

Thoughtful and kindly? When Sean had met him, he’d been well on his way to gin poisoning. But not so far into his cups that he couldn’t hire a passing stranger to seduce his wife and make sure his spying butler knew enough about it to report it to the man who held the purse strings. At the time, Sean had justified the idea in his own mind, for it coincided cozily with his own
plans, but now he wondered about this baron. “So he didn’t spend a single night here with her?” he asked, baffled by the idea.

She nodded again and looked a little peeved by his disbelief, but he couldn’t help questioning further.

“And why would that be, do you think?”

Emily made a sound like a hissing snake and arched away from him, voice still hushed. “You’ve got a taste of her tongue, sure.”

“She can be a bit harsh, perhaps, but—”

“A bit harsh? I seen adders with more ’uman kindness than she’s got. Say…” she said and narrowed her eyes at him. “You ain’t set your cap for ’er yourself, ’ave you?”

He raised his brows at the girl’s absurdity. “I’m Irish, lass, not mad.”

She stared at him a moment, then laughed. “And here I was a’thinking it was all one and the same.”

“I’m wounded that—” he began, then paused to peer past her plump shoulder. “What’s that, then?”

“What?” She jumped, making him suspect she wouldn’t be
entirely
eager to share her feelings with Lady Tilmont.

“Someone seemed to be near the garden gate,” he lied.

“It’s not the baroness, sure,” she said, and glowered into the darkness.

“I don’t know who else it might have been.”

“God save us,” she said, and flipping her dampened
shawl back over her head, turned with a scowl. “Even a peahen has enough sense to come in out of this weather. I don’t know why Gregors sent
me
. It ain’t my job to…” Her voice dwindled as she stepped outside and hurried into the darkness.

Gallagher waited until the count of three, then snuffed out the lantern. In a moment he was back to the supposedly empty stall.

“Unless you’re spending the night, lass, you’d best leave now,” he said. “I don’t—”

“What did she want?”

He jerked in surprise, finding her behind him. “How the devil did you get out there?”

“What did she say?”

He peered into the shadows of the stall. The side walls were constructed of solid planking. Designed to house amorous stallions, they were seven feet tall if they were an inch. He scowled.

“I don’t believe she’s overly fond of you.”

She raised a brow. “It’s going to be difficult to bear up under that devastating disappointment,” she said, “but why don’t you tell me her exact words nonetheless.”

He was becoming accustomed to the darkness and could just make out the soft glow of her eyes. “If you don’t care, why do you wish to know, lass?”

“Perhaps I’m as bored as you suspected. Tell me.”

“She said you were to bear your husband’s child,” he said, and watched her. It was difficult to say for certain, but it almost seemed that she blushed.

“Doesn’t that go without saying?” she asked.

“But your husband isn’t here.” The soft darkness and their close proximity made the situation seem hopelessly intimate. Without trying, he could remember the feel of her lips against his.

“Call me naive but I don’t believe procreation is considered a full-time occupation,” she said. “Surely you know that a man of my husband’s stature has other duties to see to.”

“Duties?” he said, and almost laughed out loud.

She turned angrily, but he caught her arm. “So he was called away on business?”

She hesitated only a moment. “Of course.”

“After so short a time wed?”

She glanced away, lips pursed. And by the ragged light of the besieged moon, she looked as tempting as a siren. “My lord is ever mindful of our financial standing. For me and our progeny to be.”

“Progeny?” he said, and now he did laugh.

She gritted her teeth.

“If I were your bridegroom I would be more mindful of you and less so of coin,” he said, and reaching out, touched her face.

Her eyes lifted to his, and for one shattering second he thought she would kiss him, but in that instant Emily called again.

She pulled out of his grasp, then turning rapidly away, flitted through the doorway and into the shadows.

Her self-recriminations began immediately. Holy hell, what had she been thinking? A lady of breeding didn’t hobnob with the help. Didn’t spar with the underlings.

But she was no lady of breeding. She was—

She stopped herself immediately, remembering her mission despite the Irishman’s hot allure.

She was Clarette Stenejem, Lady Tilmont. No one to be trifled with. And she should have stayed inside.

Lifting her skirts, she peered through the darkness toward the towering manse she had left less than a half hour before. At least she could have avoided the barn…or his
lair
, as she should call it. The man was as subtle as a cannon. She was a married woman and yet he tried to tempt her at every turn. She should send him packing, she thought, but glancing toward the byre, she remembered the cast of his crooked grin. Good God, it took her breath away. But maybe that was just the stench of the barnyard, she mused, and lifting her nose, proceeded toward the house.

“I cannot believe my eyes.”

Savaana spun toward the cultured voice that issued
from the darkness. It was almost familiar, but not quite. “Who’s there?”

The intruder stayed in the deepest of shadows. “Though the frilly costume of the simpering
ton
suits you. I would not have thought it so.”

Her heart was thrumming in her chest but she kept her voice steady, buying time, trying to place his voice. “What is it you want?”

“I thought that much was obvious. Come along now,” he said, but in that moment she raised her chin and buried herself fully in the sharp-edged persona of Lady Tilmont.

“I told Gregors we should get a hound to keep the vermin off the estate.”

“Who—” he began, but then chuckled, low and deep as he stepped forward. “I always said you could play a part.”

“One scream and my man will be on you,” she warned, and backed away a cautious step.

“Your man!” Reaching out, he jerked her into the shadows, hands hard as steel on her arms. “Is that what you call him?”

“Let me go!”

“I saw you with him. Flirting like a whore.”

“My lady!” Gallagher’s voice resonated in the darkness. “Where are you?”

“Not a word,” hissed her captor. His fingers tightened like talons. She dare not speak, but she dare not remain silent either.

“I’m here!” she yelled.

“Damn you! Play your games, then. Your grandfather will be the one to suffer for them,” he said, and thrusting her roughly to the ground, disappeared like a wraith into the darkness.

“Me lady!” Gallagher’s brogue broke the sharp silence.

“Here.” Her voice was shaking, her elbows bruised where she had landed on them. She shifted now, ready to rise, but he was there, reaching for her. She let him help her, let him gather her gently against his chest.

“Lass, you’re shaking. What happened?”

“I don’t…” She shifted her gaze to the dark walnut trees that ringed the towering stone house. “I don’t know. A man…” Her voice failed her.

“What man?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Lady Tilmont!” Gregors’s cultured voice seemed strident and coarse after the Irishman’s soothing brogue. In a moment he was there beside them, lantern swaying from his uplifted hand. Seeing them together in the darkness, he locked his attention on Savaana. “What goes on here?”

“Take her to the house,” Gallagher said.

“See here—” Gregor began, but the other brooked no objections.

“Now!” he ordered, and turning, melted silently into the darkness.

S
avaana moved straight and true down the stairway. Her nose was lifted at the perfect angle, her fingers skimmed the rail, her tread was light on the rose-hued carpet.

She was Lady Tilmont, wealthy, well-bred, refined. She was married now and ’twas her duty to care for this lowly estate, even if it was miles from civilization. Thus she wouldn’t dwell on the attack, for it would do her no good. Perhaps the villain had been a wandering tradesman…with a highly refined accent. Or perhaps it had been the flirty Irishman himself. He had not, after all, shown up until after her attacker had disappeared. Of course, she had heard his voice calling from a distance while the other man was still clasping her arms, but that proved nothing. Not in her mind. Who knows what kind of shenanigans the Irishman might be able to conjure? He was a Celt, after all, and therefore suspect by nature.

Another possibility flitted fitfully through her mind,
but she swatted it down, kept it silent. For now. For a little longer.

An hour or so after the incident, Gallagher had come to the house to proclaim that he had seen no sign of an intruder. But then he wouldn’t, would he? Not if he himself were the culprit. Maybe he only wished to scare her. To frighten her into his arms. But that would never work. She was no wilting lily, though she had been something of a
shaken
lily.

To battle her nerves, Margarite had suggested she partake of her favorite beverage. The Tuica seemed as strong as turpentine against her throat. She’d coughed a little but finished the plum brandy posthaste. After that she went to bed and slept until well after noon, breakfasting on poached eggs and muffins. But now she was ready to meet the world.

“Gregors.” Her voice was strong and demanding. He appeared in a heartbeat, bowing stiffly. She looked sternly down her nose at him. “See that the wagon is made ready.”

“The wagon, my lady?” Although his expression remained perfectly unchanged, she could hear the uncertainty in his voice, and in that instant she felt a tiny chink fall from her carefully polished armor.

Her mind spun for the correct word. Not caravan. Hack? Cart? Toboggan?…Oh hell! She was Lady Tilmont, she remembered, and raised her chin
another notch. “Do you not speak the king’s English, Gregors?”

Had she been asked, she would not have thought it possible for him to stiffen even more. She would have been wrong.

“Might you mean the cabriolet, my lady?”

Cabriolet. Well hell, of course that’s what she meant. She gave a disdainful nod. “See that it’s made ready,” she repeated, and turned back up the stairs.

He cleared his throat. “’Tis a bit late in the day for a sojourn to London, is it not, baroness?”

She turned back, heart beating just a little too fast. Surely the hearts of well-bred ladies did not beat more than once or twice an hour. “Did you hear me say aught of London?”

“I but assumed.”

She lifted her skirts in a regal hand and turned away. “Do not assume, Gregors.”

“I’ve no wish to pry, my lady—”

“Then you should definitely refrain from doing that as well,” she advised.

“But I feel it my duty to inform Mr. Gallagher where he will be taking you so as to prepare him for his days ahead.”

“If you must know, I feel a need to do a bit of shopping. Therefore I will be traveling to Darlington.”

“Darlington, my lady?” He raised his brows half a
centimeter. It was the equivalent of an open-mouthed stare in another. “To shop?”

She glared at him, though she knew her mistake. Darlington was not exactly known as a shopping mecca, but she had stuck her toe in the ground and she would remain there.

“As butler here you should already be aware that Knollcrest’s larders are low on sugar.”

He continued to stare.

She executed a delicate shudder. “Only a barbarian or a Celt would drink tea without sugar.”

Still no expression, though she’d aimed the barb directly at his ancestry. Perhaps he wasn’t Scottish after all. “Therefore…” she said, sounding vastly peeved. “I shall be traveling to Darlington to retrieve the necessary provisions.”

He gave her the slightest inclination of his head. “As you will, of course, my lady, but surely Clare could make the—”

“Clare,” she began, “is the one who has failed to fill the larders adequately up till this point. I see no reason to believe she will improve her performance today. Thus I will be leaving within the hour.” She turned again.

“As you will, my lady.”

“And the Irishman will remain at Knollcrest.”

“Your pardon, my lady?”

She didn’t deign to glance at him. “If you are hard of
hearing, Gregors, perhaps you could find a replacement with sharper senses,” she said, and glided back up the stairs.

“If only I were entirely deaf,” he said.

She pivoted toward him, sure she’d heard wrong. “What say you?”

“He is the only one left,” Gregors said. “Since Mr. Underhill’s injury.”

He was mocking her. She was sure of it, and though some traitorous part of her was tempted to laugh, she managed to say, “I’m certain you’ll find someone,” in a voice cold enough to freeze blood.

“May I inquire why you wish for Mr. Gallagher to remain behind?”

She studied him as if he were a descendent of some despicable insect. “If you must know, I do not entirely trust him.” That much was true. It was also true that she didn’t entirely trust herself. And how unlikely was that? “What of James?” She had seen the aging shepherd meandering through the flocks on more than one occasion. He was short and red-faced and not the least appealing. James would be perfect.

“His wife has begun her lying in.”

“He’s got a wife?”

He didn’t tell her she was acting the idiot, but she was quite sure he thought it. “Yes, my lady. Hence the lying in.”

“And she’s giving birth?”

“I can think of no other reason for her confinement.”

“Well…” She made an impatient gesture with one hand, but she was losing her haughty edge. Childbirth was not something with which she was entirely comfortable. Drina was Dook Natsia’s midwife, and none usurped her authority. Nor had Savaana ever wished to. She was quite certain Lady Tilmont would feel the same. “That cannot take all day, surely.”

For a moment she thought Gregors might actually laugh at her foolishness. In fact, it was a mystery to her how he could refrain. “I’m afraid it has been known to do just that, my lady.”

She lowered her brows. “Very well, then, what of his eldest lad?”

“Enos…?” He didn’t so much as raise a brow. “…has yet to reach his ninth birthday.”

“Emily?”

“Afraid of horses.”

“Cook.”

He gave her a single blink that spoke volumes. Good God, this man should be a mime. He could make a small fortune on the streets of Paris while being as irritating as he wished. “Perhaps you are unaware that before being convinced to come to Knollcrest, Monsieur LaFont was the chef for the Duke of Elbany.”

She wasn’t exactly sure what he was saying, but she
guessed it had something to do with the reason Cook would not be driving her to Darlington.

“Very well,” she said, her tone pinched. “Then you shall have to take the ribbons yourself.” She had heard that phrase on the bustling streets of London during one of her performances there and stashed it away for later use. But she couldn’t have foreseen this little eventuality.

“My lady…” His stare was deadly even. “I do not venture out of doors.”

Holy hell. She stared back. Was he serious? she wondered, and realized he didn’t exactly seem the type to enjoy a good jest. “I beg your pardon.”

“And you have it,” he said stiffly, but Lady Tilmont did not back down so easily.

“Are you refusing to drive me to the village, Gregors?”

There was, perhaps, a pause for a fraction of a second. “Yes, I believe I am.”

Even a lady knew when she was beaten, or at least she had to assume so. “Then you must find me a chaperone.”

He was silent for a full three seconds this time. “A chaperone, my lady?”

“Dem it, Gregors, I could have sworn there was no echo in this house last we spoke. I do not approve of the way so many demireps go about unescorted these days, and I’ll not be one of them.”

“Commendable, I’m sure,” he said. “But be that as
it may, I fear I have no access to someone suitable for such an—”

“I will have a chaperone, Gregors,” she vowed. “Or you will be carrying the cabriolet to Darlington on your back. Do you understand me?”

Apparently he did because not two hours later a chaperone arrived. She was approximately three hundred years old. As far as Savaana could tell, the lady was totally bald, though most of her pate was covered by a powdered wig the size of a bushel basket. Beribboned and plumed, it sat askance on her oversized head.

Gregors introduced them himself. “Lady Tilmont, may I present Mrs. Edwards.”

Savaana inclined her head and wondered vaguely if the poor old fossil was about to fall dead at her feet, but Gregors seemed oblivious to the possibility of death and soldiered on.

“Mrs. Edwards was the lady in waiting for—”

“My lady!” The old woman’s voice boomed through the house like an errant cannon blast. “I am Mrs. Edwards.”

Savaana opened her mouth to speak, but the other shrieked on.

“I was a lady of the bedchamber for Queen Caroline.”

“Caroline of Brunswick, the Regent’s queen?”

“Not Prinny’s tramp, of course,” Edwards yelled. “George the Second’s lady wife.”

Savaana quickly tried to figure out the implications of
that fact but was boggled by the possibilities. Caroline of Brunswick had died more than seventy years earlier. “Well…” She gave the old woman her most refined smile. “Let us be about our business, then.”

Darlington was little more than a bevy of hovels stuck together with wattle and pig manure. But it had a decent dry goods store, which seemed to sell a bit of everything. They stopped there first.

Gallagher had changed from his rough leather breeches into Knollcrest’s gray and black livery. She was quite sure he should look servile in the uniform, but somehow it managed the opposite, making him seem like nobility playing in peasant’s clothing. He handed her down, grinning roguishly. Their fingers met for a moment, but she refused to acknowledge the spark of something that zapped between them. For God’s sake, she hadn’t tumbled out of the turnip cart yesterday, she reminded herself, and tugged her hand impatiently from his grip.

Her grocery purchase took all of fifteen minutes, because, truth to tell, she couldn’t care less if Knollcrest’s larders held nothing more than crickets and dust. But she wouldn’t think of her true reasons for being there. Not yet. For now she would remain firmly in character. She glanced about. A blue bonnet was displayed at a cocky angle on the newel post of a railing near the front of the store. She ran her fingers over its brim.

“’Tis a comely piece,” Gallagher said from behind her.

She gave him a glance over her shoulder. Didn’t drivers usually stay with the damned wagon? she wondered, but had found no reason to insist that he remain there. Even Mrs. Edward had hobbled in and sat nodding away in a corner of the store near the window. Maybe he had merely come in to assist the elderly woman. Then again, for all she knew he might have a penchant for women’s garments. For a moment she imagined him in naught but her cotton drawers.

He raised one brow as if he could read her thoughts, but Lady Tilmont was not the blushing sort. Savaana was certain of it.

“’Twould bring out the color of your eyes,” he said, and she forced herself to meet his gaze.

“As it happens, Smallwick, I rather like the color where it is,” she said, and he laughed.

“’Twould be my pleasure to purchase it for you.”

Savaana glanced toward the shop’s proprietress. She was a middle-aged woman with a no-nonsense look about her. Luckily, she was too busy hanging dried herbs to notice their conversation.

“Need I remind you, yet again, that I am a married woman?” Savaana asked, returning her hard gaze to the Irishman’s.

He shook his head, never breaking eye contact. “I believe that is what the lass in yon corner is for.”

She scowled.

“Wee Mrs. Edwards,” he said, though it was entirely possible her chaperone weighed more than the two of them together. “Did ye not bring her along to keep yourself from the likes of me?”

“Are you implying that I find you irresistible?”

“Aye,” he said, and smiled…irresistibly.

“Well, I do not.”

“Then why bring the enchanting Mrs.—”

“I hired Mrs. Edwards to keep things proper.”

“Did you now?” he asked, and took a step toward her, crowding a little, though in truth there was a full two feet of space between them.

“Yes, I did.”

“You know what I find improper, lass?”

“No,” she said, “and neither do I care.”

“Improper and improbable and unimaginable?”

She wrinkled her nose as though offended by his scent, but in truth he smelled of leather and sunlight. “Bathing on a weekly basis?” she guessed.

His full lips quirked up again. “The fact that your husband could leave a fair beauty like you alone after so little time in your bed.” Reaching out, he took her hand in his and skimmed his thumb slowly across her knuckles.

Feelings sparked through her like naughty fireflies, but she refrained from yanking away as if burned. She also refrained from dragging him to the ground like a
wolf on a hare. Instead, she lifted her gaze slowly to the busy proprietress, then shifted it regally back to his.

“Unhand me, sir,” she said, though in truth, she could not quite find the motivation to pull from his velvet clasp. “Or I shall be forced to take appropriate measures.”

His dimples flicked into place, and though he moved no closer, she felt as if they shared the very air they breathed. “Such as taking me to your bed?”

The suggestion made a thousand rampant thoughts thunder through her head, but she banished each one. Angry at her own wayward imaginings, she said, “Such as kneeing you in the crotch.”

For a moment he was speechless, and then he laughed. The sound was low and beautiful, rumbling erotically through her soul. The proprietress glanced toward them. Savaana cleared her throat and tugged her fingers from his, though, in truth, their hands were well hidden behind a display of men’s hats.