To Be Seduced (3 page)

“Easily.” How a slip of girl managed to look down her nose at him while sitting down, he did not know. “I shall say ‘No’ in front of the minister.”

“And destroy your reputation? You’re bluffing.”

A delightful blush covered her face, but she did not back down. “I might be ruined, but you’ll still be poor,” she retorted. “And that would defeat your purpose, wouldn’t it?”

She betrayed no sign of her anxiety as she waited for his response. Lord Harcourt underestimated her fortune. Perhaps he would underestimate her intelligence as well.

“I should think a God-fearing woman would wish to avoid the immoral atmosphere of London,” he mocked. “Are you so eager to embrace the city’s delights?”

“Certainly not,” she replied stiffly. “Our former vicar now lives there, and I wish him to marry us.”

“I suppose I must respect your sentiment in wishing to have your childhood pastor marry you.” To Bethany’s surprise, his lordship spoke in earnest She sniffed disdainfully.

“Sentiment has nothing to do with it,” she said tartly. “’Tis simple enough to pay someone to act as a man of the cloth. You shall not wed me in a mock ceremony only to take my money and abandon me.”

The insufferable man had the gall to take offense. “Good God, madam, I’m not a thief.”

“I vow ’tis a burden off my mind to know that I’ve been kidnapped by an honest man,” she spat.

For a few seconds Lord Harcourt’s green eyes blazed with rage. Then his lips twitched into a reluctant grin.

“
Touché
, my dear,” he chuckled. Opening the window, he shouted to the coachman to make for London. Now if he could just get his bride-to-be to the altar without throttling her.

Some time later, Lane wheeled the coach onto the London road. His route, as far as Bethany could discern, had ranged over a series of ill-kept tracks in an attempt to remain hidden from everyone in the Stanworth area. The jostling she experienced in the rickety vehicle surpassed her earlier imaginings, and she prayed the smoother surface of the highway would bring some relief to her aching head. It did not, but the sight of Lord Harcourt bracing himself against the squabs next to her proved obscurely comforting. She stiffened her spine, determined not to complain.

As the coach traveled farther and farther south, her resolve dwindled. The ache in her head spread down and formed an alarmingly familiar heaviness in her stomach. For some time, deep breaths of the chilled air seeping around the window frame kept her nausea at bay. When the fresh air no longer helped, she turned to her new fiancé, trying not to show her distress.

“Excuse me, my lord. I believe I should like to avail myself of the vinaigrette you offered earlier.” His only reply was an arched brow, but he produced it willingly enough. Bethany took it from his outstretched hand and held it under her nose, inhaling the acrid odor thankfully. The leaden ache in her stomach receded slightly, but she feared her relief would only be temporary. Attempting to distract herself, she spoke again.

“Will it take long to reach London?”

“We should arrive near midday tomorrow,” he replied. Bethany felt another lurch in her midriff, this time caused by the reminder that she would be spending the night in an inn with a stranger, fiancé or not. At her choice, she reminded herself firmly.

Her companion looked out the window. “I believe we have another two hours of daylight. We should start looking for a decent place to stay before dusk.”

Bethany nodded, hoping her stomach would remain calm that long. She cast about for another subject to speak of. “Where exactly are your lodgings in London?”

“Not far from Somerset House.” His sharp glance in her direction belied his civil answer.

“What are they like?” she persisted.

“So many questions, so suddenly,” he mused softly. “Not thinking of changing your mind, are you?” He grasped her jaw and forced her to look into his furious green eyes.

“As if that would do any good now,” she gasped. “It’s too late to turn back.”

“Aye. You’d do well to remember that.” As his gaze flickered over her face and down her body, she realized he was not referring to the distance they had traveled. She supposed she should feel threatened, but another violent bump in the road caused her stomach to reel in misery.

After pausing for another sniff at the vinaigrette, she asked, “My lord, do you think we might start looking for a place to stay soon?”

“Now you’re eager to stop? You’re rushing your fences, my girl. Few men are stupid enough to think even a woman can change her mind that quickly.” His handsome features contorted into a sneer.

“I am not changing my mind, sir,” she said stiffly, trying to hang on to what dignity she could. “But I feel most unwell and would be grateful not be shaken about like dice in a box.”

“Unwell? You can’t be trying to gammon me with that excuse.”

“It is not an excuse,” Bethany stated in between deep breaths. “And if you do not stop this horrible contraption very soon, the consequences will be unpleasant.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Exceedingly so.”

“Oh my God.” Lord Harcourt immediately opened his window and shouted wildly for Lane to stop the coach.

Bethany did not wait for it to come to a complete halt. As soon as possible, she wrestled the door open and jumped onto the ground. Desperate for privacy, she headed toward a line of trees several paces from the road. But before she took ten steps, she doubled over, stomach heaving.

As she finished retching, she became aware of two arms firmly supporting her. Lord Harcourt murmured into her ear as she tried to compose herself. “Shhh, there now. There’s a girl.” The stream of phrases meant nothing, but his deep voice soothed her so that she ceased shaking. A folded square of clean linen was pressed into her fingers. He helped her straighten up, holding her against his chest until she could stand on her own. Even then, he kept a steadying hand at her elbow.

Humiliated, Bethany could not bring herself to look anywhere but at the dead leaves around her feet as she wiped her mouth with Lord Harcourt’s kerchief. One of his elegantly shaped hands slid into her line of sight, holding a small flask.

“Drink,” he ordered. Too ashamed of her weakness to argue, she opened it. The pungent odor of strong spirits nearly gagged her and the fumes brought tears to her eyes. She took a swallow, swirled it around in her mouth, and spit it out.

“God’s teeth, woman! That’s French brandy,” he exclaimed.

“It wouldn’t have stayed down,” she said weakly. “I’m sorry. It did help get the taste out of my mouth. Thank you, my lord.” She still could not bear to raise her head.

She felt him shake with repressed laughter. “Considering that we are betrothed and have just shared a highly intimate experience, I think it’s time you called me Richard.”

Bethany looked at him for a long minute. Then she bent over and retched at his feet.

His lordship scrambled out of the way, mindful of his boots, but slipped a supporting arm about her waist once her stomach had emptied itself. He sighed and offered the brandy flask once more, wincing when she spit a second mouthful on the ground.

He peered down at her quizzically. “Under the circumstances, I shan’t complain, but I am curious. Do you often become violently unwell on long journeys?”

Her stiffening spine assured him of her recovery. When she pulled away, he let her go easily and stood, waiting for her answer.

“Only in badly sprung vehicles.” Her frosty stare swept over him. “Where did you unearth such a monstrosity?”

“Simply by telling the livery stable what I could afford, love.” The sun had dipped lower in the west while his unwilling betrothed dealt with her indisposition. Bandits and worse haunted the roads after dark, and Richard wanted to find a place for the night before much more time passed. He bowed and indicated the coach. “Your monstrosity awaits.”

She did not argue, although neither did she appear remotely enthusiastic about resuming their drive. He watched her square her shoulders and walk to the vehicle. Hiding a smile, he followed.

As they approached, the patient driver greeted them affably. “Mistress done casting up her accounts?” He climbed down from the box and opened the door. “Here you go, my lady. We’ll take it a bit slower now.”

Bethany could not meet the man’s eyes despite his kindly meant words. Richard took pity on his companion’s obvious embarrassment and assisted her into the carriage before addressing his servant in a low voice. “We’ll stop at the Bell and Moon. We can reach it before sundown.”

“Should we take the lady there, milord?” Lane scratched his graying head. “It ain’t a place what gets much of the Quality.”

“It’s clean and I should be able to afford at least one room for the night.”

The rest of the afternoon’s drive passed without further disturbances, although by the time they reached their destination, Bethany once again clutched the vinaigrette. Clearly relieved by the end of the day’s drive, she assured Richard that she suffered from nothing more than a headache. Eying her pallid face, however, he suspected she deprecated her discomfort. Ordering her to stay in the coach, he entered the building to make arrangements for the evening. Lane remained on the box to ward off strangers.

Bethany had indeed minimized the depths of her discomfort. She rested her head against the squabs, eyes closed. Her head pounded and her empty stomach clenched mercilessly. Past experience informed her that she needed a nap and a light meal, and the wait for them stretched endlessly.

The bustle of the inn yard did little to relieve her throbbing head. Other travelers wishing to find an evening’s shelter arrived. Hoofbeats, creaking wheels, and shouts for the ostler combined with barking dogs and the shrills of the barmaid to assault her ears in a painful cacophony. Finally rescue appeared in the creak of the coach door and his lordship’s voice.

“I’ve bespoken a room for the evening and a private parlour for our meal.” Bethany raised an eyelid to discover her betrothed holding out a hand to assist her. She accepted his help gratefully, swaying slightly as her feet touched the ground. Instantly his arm slipped round her waist. “Are you able to walk?” His lordship made as if to pick her up but she forestalled him.

“I am somewhat light-headed, sir, but quite capable of remaining on my own feet.” She refused to disgrace herself by being carried into a public house. Another wave of dizziness assailed her and she hastened to add, “If you would permit me to lean on your arm.”

“Of course.” Bethany ignored the laughter behind his polite words. He kept his arm firmly under hers as they crossed the yard and entered the half-timbered building. Once inside, he introduced her to a woman about her mother’s age. “This is Mistress Gatwell, the innkeeper’s wife. I’ve asked her to show you to your chamber while I see to ordering our supper. Mistress Gatwell, my sister.”

Concluding that her abductor betrothed had not exposed her real name or their relationship, she bestowed a grateful smile on him. “Thank you—Richard.”

As she followed the landlady up a set of dark wooden stairs to the gallery, she became aware that this was not an establishment of the highest quality. The whitewash on the walls covered wattle and daub instead of solid wood, and the customers arriving in the yard below consisted largely of farmers and carters. However, the landlady escorted her to a clean, if small, bedchamber. There, she curtsied and told Bethany that the gentleman said she was feeling poorly, and would she like some lavender water and a cloth for her head?

The girl accepted the offer with profuse thanks, and Mistress Gatwell whisked out of the room, shutting the door behind her. The furnishings consisted of a wide bed and a washstand. A square mirror hung above the stand. One window overlooked the road below. Bethany noted the spotless diamond panes favorably, and a closer inspection of the bed disclosed that the sheets smelled of soap rather than mildew.

After a serving girl delivered the promised water and cloth, she removed her white cap and the hairpins holding her braid in a heavy coil at the back of her head. As she undid her hair, she sighed in relief. Dipping the cloth into the pitcher and wringing it out, she then sank blissfully onto the bed’s woolen coverlet and placed the cool length of linen over her forehead.

She awoke with a start at the sound of knocking. Disoriented, she clambered to the floor and stood looking about the room in confusion. Judging from the early evening light shining in through the window, she had not slept long.

“Mistress? ’Tis nearly time for supper, if you’re of a mind to eat.” After a moment’s thought, she recognized the voice as belonging to the landlady. “Shall I tell your brother to expect you?”

Her brother! The day’s events rushed back to Bethany, along with the realization that the last thing she had eaten was part of a Shrewsbury cake in her mother’s library that afternoon. Homesickness battled with her rumbling stomach. By now, her mother had probably visited every home in the neighborhood searching for her. Practicality won out over conscience. “Please tell”—she stumbled over the words—“my brother that I shall join him,” she called through the door. “And would you be so kind as to bring paper, ink, and a quill to my room?” She could at least write to assure her mother of her well-being.

Relieved that Mistress Gatwell had not entered to see her mussed hair, Bethany went over to the mirror. As she suspected, she would have to rebraid it before replacing her cap. Freeing the mass, she finger-combed it until it lay smooth enough to manage.

Concentrating on taming the fine strands, she did not hear the well-oiled door open.

“
Jesu.
” She whirled around at the soft expletive. Richard Harcourt’s cloaked form stood in the doorway, staring at her. Horrified, she grabbed the cap to cover her head.

He put out his hand to stop her. “No.” He shut the door and stalked toward her. She instinctively backed up until the wall stopped her retreat. He stared at her with smoky eyes, then reached out to wind a strand around his fingers.

“I had no idea you were a redhead,” he murmured, watching sunlight from the window gleam across the fiery tendril.

She closed her eyes in humiliation. Her wretched hair had been the bane of her existence as long as she could remember. “Please let me put my cap on.”

“Why? ’Tis too beautiful to be bound up and hidden.” His hand slid into the silky mass, further entangling his fingers.

She jerked her head away. “I’m sure
you
find it most pleasing, but rest assured, sir, that despite my hair I am no wanton.” To her concern, a wicked smile spread across milord’s face.

“Oh? Let’s find out. I already know you’ve the temper that matches Judas hair.” Mesmerized by his gravelly murmur, she froze, heart pounding, as he placed his forearms against the wall on either side of her head. Trapped, she could only watch his face descending to hers.

When their mouths met, she gasped at the unexpected jolt of pleasure that lanced through her. Taking advantage, he swept his tongue between her lips. She shivered at the sensation of warmth in the pit of her stomach.

Her upbringing reasserted itself. Pushing him away, she managed to slip beneath his arms and away from him. He made as if to follow her, but she held up her shaking hands to fend him off.

“Please, no! I have no idea what possessed me, just—leave me at once.” Irritated at her betrothed’s ability to disconcert her, she wanted nothing more than to be rid of his presence.

He smiled sweetly, clearly amused by her discomfort. “But I’ve come to escort you to supper.” With a slight bow, he gestured to the doorway.

She fixed him with an icy stare, but the effect was ruined when her stomach rumbled loudly. Ignoring his quivering lips, she announced, “Then I shall sup in here, thank you.”