Two Shades of Seduction (2 page)

England, 1888

“F
ischer
!” Quentin Blackwell, Earl of Devlyn, shouted for his manservant as he strode through the front door of his country estate. Behind him trailed two enormous wolfhounds. As Devlyn halted in the foyer, he peeled off his riding gloves and slammed his crop down on the long table braced against the wall.

The mirror overhanging the furniture flashed his reflection and the peeling wallpaper behind him. He grimaced at the entryway’s decayed state and his disheveled appearance. He looked as dilapidated as his house. The sleeve of his jacket was ripped at the shoulder, and a smudge of dirt on his face emphasized the jagged white scar streaking across his cheek.

Shoving a hand through his tousled black hair, he whirled away from the mirror as if doing so would make him forget his tattered appearance and the crumbling state of his family home.

“
Fischer
,” he roared as he strode angrily toward his study. “Where the devil
are
you?”

The door to the study slammed backward and hit the wall with a violent crash as he strode angrily into the room. His encounter with Spencer Hamilton had only strengthened his resolve to destroy the boy’s family. The insolent pup. The boy actually thought a pugilist match would avenge his sister’s honor.

An image of Eleanor filled his head. No one needed to protect Eleanor Hamilton and her
delicate
sensibilities, the woman was like a nasty-tempered cat that always landed on its feet. With a growl of disgust, Quentin made his way to the sideboard and splashed a stiff shot of whiskey into a glass.

With a sharp gesture, he tossed the liquor down his throat, relishing the burning sensation that made its way down into his chest. He turned his head toward the dogs lying quietly in front of the fireplace. Their soulful gaze met his as anger flooded his limbs once more.

“Where in the hell did the boy get the idea that Eleanor was the injured party five years ago?” Caesar lifted his head and cocked it to one side as if he understood the question. Quentin stretched out the hand he held his glass in and pointed his forefinger at the dog. “Eleanor, that’s who.”

The gentle giant released a soft whimper of commiseration at his master’s rant then lowered his head back down to his large paws. Beside his brother, Beast just watched Quentin with a weary look that said he sympathized with his master’s ire, but knew there was nothing he could do to help. Quentin gritted his teeth. The fact was, Hamilton’s sister had been far from innocent five years ago, and he was certain that hadn’t changed. A sudden snap rent the air as the glass he held crumpled under the weight of his grip.

“
Goddamnit
!” He grimaced as shards of glass bit into his hand. “
Fischer
! Get the hell in here!”

Whipping a handkerchief out of his pocket, he removed the glass from his palm and proceeded to clean the small lacerations. Behind him, footsteps echoed on the barren wood floors.

“I’m sorry, my lord. Cook had a minor catastrophe in the kitchen.” The sparse-looking man eyed Quentin’s appearance with arched eyebrows. “Another brawl, my lord?”

He glared at his butler, manservant and all around man of affairs. When one’s finances were in such miserable states as his, he was fortunate to have a loyal retainer like Fischer. But the man had the ability to make him feel like a chastened schoolboy at times. And this was one of those moments.

“I
never
brawl, Fischer,” he bit out at the man’s skeptical look then looked away with irritation.

At least not any more he didn’t. Granted, Fischer had dressed his wounds from more than one brawl in the past five years. The last time had been two years ago when a sailor sliced his cheek open. His hand briefly touched the vicious scar on his face. He’d almost lost an eye, and it had taught him to curb his temper and walk away from a fight. Although at the moment, he was hardly a model of decorum. As Fischer studied him with an air of disappointment, Quentin grimaced.

“If you must know, Townsend’s youngest offspring discovered I’d returned and tried to avenge his sister’s supposed honor,” he sighed.

“I see.”

“Do you? I’m not so sure you think me innocent.” It was an unfair statement, and Quentin shook his head in silent apology. The older man’s expression retained its serene state.

“I know you too well to believe you capable of walking away from a woman you’ve compromised, Master Quentin.”’

Fischer’s use of his childhood name was a comforting one. The older man had used that term of affection up until Quentin’s father and mother had died of influenza when he was nineteen. The moment he became the Earl of Devlyn, the man had immediately begun to address him more formally. The exceptions were moments like these when Fischer instinctively sensed Quentin was at his lowest point.

He abruptly turned away. Fischer was right in his assessment. He could no more have betrayed Eleanor five years ago than cut off his hand. He’d been in love with the woman. The day she’d broken his heart, he’d set out to earn himself the title, the Devil of Devlyn Keep. He’d explored every debauched sin and deed in the past five years with the sole purpose of obliterating the woman from his mind.

Until this morning, he’d been successful in his efforts. Then young Hamilton had accosted him at the pond, ripping open the wound he’d thought well healed. But it wasn’t the wound he’d expected. For the first time, today he had realized he didn’t love Eleanor. Probably never had. No, what cut so deep was the injustice of it all.

Humiliation made his lips harden into a thin line as he remembered finding Eleanor fucking the stable boy. She’d tried to convince him that the stable hand had seduced her, but Quentin had seen enough to know the woman was lying. He had immediately broken off with her, but the minute the woman learned she was with child she’d executed an audacious and brilliant chess move.

The bitch had done her work well the day she’d convinced Baron Townsend that Quentin was the father of her bastard child. It had set Townsend off in a wild frenzy to avenge his youngest daughter’s so-called honor. Almost overnight, the man had set out to take from Quentin as much of the Devlyn fortune as he could. Shrugging out of his torn jacket, he handed it to Fischer.

“See that it’s mended,” he said as he released a breath of resignation. “It will be several weeks before my investments will allow me to purchase a new one.”

“Perhaps you might forego my salary this month, my lord. I think it might at least afford you a new coat. This one is rather worn. In fact, I’m surprised the sleeve hasn’t ripped before now.”

The man’s generous offer made Quentin tighten his jaw. He often forgot how much Fischer truly was the only family he had. He had a distant cousin, but had only met the man once when they were boys. Fischer had been with him throughout his younger years. The man had gone with him to America without question and never complained that the two of them had often lived hand to mouth for weeks on end. Forcing a smile to his mouth, he shook his head.

“I’m not that destitute, Fischer. You’ll have your salary, and you can’t say you don’t earn every farthing.”

“No, my lord. Indeed I can’t.” A small smile on his face, Fischer folded the coat over his arm and nodded toward Quentin’s hand. “Shall I send Cook in to look at that cut?”

“No, I’ll be all right. Thank you, Fischer. That will be all.”

“My lord.” The manservant bowed and left Quentin alone with his thoughts.

Eleanor. He wanted to wring the bitch’s neck. Slowly squeeze the life out of that dainty, golden-haired body of hers. No, that would be too easy a punishment for her. He wanted to humiliate her. Make her pay for the lies she’d told, and every bitter moment he’d suffered since then. And he wanted to make Townsend pay for stripping him of most of his inheritance.

Eleanor had simply used him to avoid the scandal her pregnancy would have brought. When she’d declared him the father of her child to the baron, little more than a month after their first meeting, he’d been crushed by her betrayal. She’d made him look the gullible fool. Her lies had taught him there were few people he could trust.

With a quick movement, he removed the makeshift bandage from his palm and stared down at the cuts already turning puffy and red. He reached for the brandy and poured a small amount of the liquor over his palm.

“
Fuck
,” he snarled softly as fire spread quickly through his hand.

The stinging reminded him of Eleanor’s betrayal. He’d been oblivious to every one of her faults. Instead, he’d allowed love to blind him. He’d even come close to proposing to the woman. No doubt, she would have continued her whoring after they were married. But fortunately, he’d caught the bitch and the stableman rutting like common beasts in one of the Townsend’s horse stalls. Never again would he allow his heart to blind him in such a way.

He wrapped his palm with the clean side of his handkerchief and moved to stand behind his desk. With his uninjured hand, he sifted through a thin pile of invitations. Word had already spread throughout the county that the Earl of Devlyn was once again entrenched in the keep. He smiled cynically. It seemed his neighbors were more than ready to forgive any of his past transgressions. Well, to hell with them. To hell with every one of them.

“My lord.” Fischer’s voice echoed with aggravation, and the sound pulled Quentin’s gaze up with a jerk to stare at the man hovering in the study’s doorway.

“What is it, Fischer?” he asked as he observed the manservant’s state of apoplexy with a frown.

“It’s a lady, my lord.”

“A lady?” Quentin frowned darkly. He wasn’t in the mood for guests, particularly an unescorted woman.

“Yes, my lord. But…well, I’m afraid…”

“Out with it, man!”

“It’s Miss Hamilton.” His body snapped to attention, his limbs rigid with tension. Eleanor. No. She was married now to that idiot Townsend had found for her. This had to be Eleanor’s sister. He released a weary sigh. The last thing he wanted was to see another of Townsend’s brats today.

“Send her away, Fischer.”

“I’ve already tried that, my lord,” the manservant said with a ferocity that was unlike him.

“What the devil does she want?” No sooner had he asked the question than a tall woman appeared behind Fischer.

“Lord Devlyn, please forgive my intrusion. I’m sure it’s unexpected
and
unwelcome.”

The husky sound of her voice stroked its way down his back in a way he’d not experienced in a long time. As Fischer stepped aside to let him handle the situation, Quentin debated crossing the room and closing the door in her face. But he didn’t. A small, perverse voice in his head urged him to listen to what the woman had to say.

“Miss Hamilton.”

Quentin gestured for her to enter the study as Fischer closed the door behind the woman. With a guarded look, he watched her step deeper into his private domain. Almost as if they’d been waiting for her to reach the middle of the room, the wolfhounds rose up off the floor. He allowed himself a small smile of derision as Caesar and Beast moved toward her.

Miss Hamilton had dared to enter his house uninvited, and if the hounds frightened her, he’d offer up no sympathy. Despite their size and fierce appearance, the wolfhounds were gentle creatures, but his unannounced visitor didn’t know that.

He waited for her to draw back in fear, but to his amazement, she bent over to scratch Beast under the chin and tugged on Caesar’s ear before straightening. The animals’ betrayal made him glare at the dogs. Sensing their master’s displeasure, the hounds ducked their heads in shame as they slinked back to the hearth.

Dressed in a royal blue riding habit, trimmed in black, her hat had black netting that prevented him from distinguishing her features easily. There was a mysterious quality to the woman, and it annoyed him to admit the fact. Even more annoying was her reaction to the dogs. Few people reacted as casually to the giant animals as she had. The woman made a slight curtsey then inhaled a deep breath as if uncertain how to proceed.

Clearing his throat, he folded his arms across his chest and noted how she jumped as he did so. She wasn’t afraid of his hounds, but his simple movement had made her as skittish as a colt. His fingertips grazed the linen of his shirt, and he remembered that he wasn’t wearing a coat.

If he were feeling more charitable, he would have made himself more presentable. But he was feeling more irritated than anything else. Quentin narrowed his gaze at her.

“So Miss Hamilton, I take if you’re related to the Baron Townsend?” He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but failed.

“Yes, my lord.” Despite her rigid stance, her voice was clear and strong.

A grudging respect tightened his body. Disgusted he’d even acknowledged her quiet strength, he directed her to take a seat in front of his desk with a sharp wave of his hand. Unable to help himself, he watched her as she moved forward and sat down.

There was a fluid grace to her movements that made his body respond on a primitive level. He bit down on the inside of his cheek. What in God’s name was wrong with him? She was one of Townsend’s progeny. The dogs started to rise from their place in front of the fire, and he scowled at the traitors until they sank back down to the floor.

Furious with himself for finding her intriguing, Quentin took his seat and threw his feet up on the desk. Even if he’d been properly dressed, the action would still have been a rude gesture, and he knew it. Her body stiffened in response, and he offered her a mocking smile. Had she really expected him to be a gentleman? He’d dispensed with gentlemanly behavior a long time ago. The Devil of Devlyn Keep answered to no one and did as he pleased. A small voice of guilt reminded him he wouldn’t have been so obnoxious if she weren’t related to Townsend. In fact, he would have been thinking about how to seduce her. He crushed his thoughts.

“And to what do I owe this honor, Miss Hamilton?”

“I…I came here with a…a proposition for you, my lord.”

“A proposition?” Quentin arched an eyebrow at her and fought not to shift his position. The woman was too damn mysterious for his comfort. “Continue.”