A Taste of Seduction (26 page)

The paper in his hand fluttered to the floor as his fingers wound in her hair and tipped her head back. He ran his lips over the soft skin of her neck, nibbling, sucking. He wanted to mark her for all to see, but refrained; instead he would let the ring on her finger do that.

“Just wait here, safe, so I know where to find you. I will be back, I swear.”

She sighed, her shoulders slumping in resignation. “Make love to me, please.”

“It will be my pleasure,” he murmured as he pushed her down on the bed beneath him and slipped between her thighs.

Arend now understood what the word “black” truly meant. He could not see anything. Not his nose, fingers, legs—nothing. It was as if his eyes were blindfolded, yet he knew they were open. He felt himself blink.

He didn't need his eyesight to know where he was, though. The rock digging into his back, the dusty soot that made it difficult to breathe, and the distinctive smell all indicated he was underground. In a coal mine, to be precise.

The back of his skull throbbed like hell. He managed to prop himself upright against the rock, but his head swam and nausea rolled in his stomach. His mouth was so dry he could barely swallow.

Even if he could move, he didn't know where he was or which way to crawl. In the complete blackness he could be moving deeper into the mine; worse still, he might fall down a shaft. Anyway, his legs didn't seem to want to move at the moment.

He had no one to blame for his predicament but himself. He'd let a woman's beauty distract him, and he'd never even heard or seen his attacker coming.

“Fool,” he whispered into the stale, dust-laden air.

He had fallen for the charms of a woman once before, years ago in Africa. He'd stupidly let himself believe she had loved him, when all she'd been after was the location of his diamond mine. It had cost him his best friend's life and his faith in human nature.

It also made him wary of a woman whose beauty could turn a man's head. A beauty that could make a man want to lay down his honor and life.

Beautiful women were not to be trusted. Any woman who wanted him had to have an ulterior motive because…well, just because. Why else would she want him? Not for his pleasant disposition.

He tried to laugh, but all he managed was a dry, scratchy croak.

Bloody Isobel had turned his head to the point where the hunter had become the hunted. She'd played him like an expert, but then she'd learned from the best—her stepmother.

All she'd had to do was bare her breasts, and he'd salivated over her like a dog in heat. The desire that had ravaged him at one glimpse of her pert, bountiful bosom had blinded him to his foe.

He closed his eyes and cursed himself to hell.

He was
in
hell.

After a moment of self-pity he pulled himself together. He had no intention of visiting hell until he died, and he wasn't dead yet.

He had no idea how long he'd been lying in this coal mine, but from his thirst and hunger it would seem a couple of days at least.

He hoped that his friends were at this moment looking for him.

However, the past had taught him it was best to rely on no one but himself. With that in mind, he turned toward the wall and, feeling the way with his hands, slowly pulled himself up. To his surprise, he could stand upright. He was in a main shaft, then. He stood waiting for the dizziness to fade and in the silence he heard a sound that was, at this point, worth all his diamond mines combined—a trickle of water.

For my dear friend, Tim Simpson, who is courageously fighting his personal villain, and I'm praying he kicks arse.

People appear genuinely interested when I say I'm a romance author. Usually they talk about what fun that must be, and it is! But it's also hard work. Not just for me, but for everyone who helps a story see the light of day.

I'm one of the fortunate writers who have a lot of support around me. My wonderful agent, Sarah Younger at the Nancy Yost Literary Agency, puts up with my nerves and doubts. I owe Gina Conkle a debt (probably quite a few drinks at the next RWA conference) for the introduction. My team at Penguin Random House, including Sue Grimshaw, Gina Wachtel, Ashleigh Heaton, Erika Seyfried, and of course my cover designer, Carrie Divine. I'm sure there are many others at PRH I should thank but I don't know all your names.

Then there is my writing support crew: Kimberly Rocha, Kendra DeLuga, Gracie O'Neil, Karen Browning, Angela Bissell, and Rachel Collins. You guys keep me sane. To my beta readers and fellow historical book lovers, who are happy to read and give me feedback, I am always so very grateful.

Of course, I have to thank my family and friends for putting up with me when I'm stressed, either because I'm late with a book or because it's not going well against my plotted-to-the-
n
th-degree plan. I must be hell to live with. I know you put up with me turning down many invitations because I have to write, yet you still keep inviting me along.

Last, I have to thank the most important people in this process, the readers. I am always humbled and grateful that readers want to read my stories, and I hope they love them as much as I do. It's nerve-racking waiting for feedback, but I learn from all of it, and I think it makes my next story stronger. Without readers I'd have no one to share my stories with, and then I would be sad.

If you would like to keep up with all my releases, sales, and other news, join Bron's Bookclub News. Anyone signing up receives a
free
ebook.

A Kiss of Lies

A Promise of More

A Touch of Passion

A Whisper of Desire

A Taste of Seduction

A Night of Forever
(coming soon)

PHOTO: © MALCOLM BROW

USA Today
bestselling author
B
RONWEN
E
VANS
grew up loving books. She writes both historical and contemporary sexy romances for the modern woman who likes intelligent, spirited heroines and compassionate alpha heroes. Evans is a three-time winner of the RomCon Readers' Crown and has been nominated for an
RT
Reviewers' Choice Award. She lives in Hawkes Bay, New Zealand, with her dogs Brandy and Duke.

bronwenevans.com

Facebook.com/​bronwenevansauthor

@bronwenevans_NZ

Available from Loveswept

L
ONDON,
L
ADY
B
EAUMONT'S
B
ALL

She wished he didn't affect her so. She couldn't understand why he made her pulse leap, her body heat, and her lips slightly part, as if in anticipation of a smile, a word, a kiss…

She disliked him intensely.

Yet, ever since he'd escorted her home just over a month ago, after she'd been abducted and had endured a harrowing carriage ride with Marisa, the Duchess of Claymore, she could not get Arend Aubury, Baron Labourd, out of her head.

Isobel watched him from across the room. He was dancing with Lady Evangeline, his dark head close to hers, his massive frame dominating her small one, his arm wrapped firmly around her waist, drawing her close. Isobel's insides crawled with envy. She longed to be in his arms.

Why could she not find the insipid Lord Sheridan as enticing? Or the rather portly Lord Denning? Both men were what she called nice men. Safe men. Men who would give her a boring and uneventful life. She sighed. A life with the darkly handsome and dangerous-looking Baron Labourd would not be uneventful. It would be exciting, stimulating, passionate…

More heat arrowed its way to her core.

She tried to look away. This was her first season, and she'd set herself the goal of finding a suitable husband—“suitable” meaning any man who would marry her by the end of the season. She was desperate to escape the clutches of her stepmother, Victoria. Unfortunately, the word “marriage” did not seem to be part of Lord Labourd's vocabulary.

Right now Victoria was talking with Lord Rotham, yet she too was watching Lord Labourd as if she'd like to gobble him up. Given that Victoria was only a few years older than her, and now widowed, Isobel was not surprised at her interest in a man as exciting as Lord Labourd.

Jealousy bit again.

He was the most virile man in the room. Was it any wonder he'd captured the undivided attention of all the women who were present? No other man stood a chance.

She wet her dry lips.

Before arriving in London for her coming out, she'd never met a man like Lord Labourd. From the moment she saw him at her first ball she was captivated by his physical attributes. Unable to drag her eyes away, Isobel tracked him as he waltzed round the ballroom, as graceful as a large black panther.

The image suited him. He looked almost leonine, except for his dark countenance. His hair was blacker than night, and his skin had an olive complexion, no doubt from his French heritage. He'd been born in France. As a young boy, his family escaped to England during the revolution.

Isobel stood on the edge of the dance floor riveted, fascinated, her lustful thoughts swirling like the dancers. Her heart was beating far too rapidly, and she felt an unmistakable warmth pool between her thighs at the primal sight of him.

“He's the one man I'd consider letting ruin me. It would be so worth it.” Lady Cassandra's comment was followed by a wicked giggle.

Isobel felt her face flush with heat. “I don't know whom you are talking about.”

“Of course you do. You've been practically salivating over him all evening.”

“I assure you I have not.”

Cassandra pretended to be shocked. “Then how do you know whom I'm talking about?”

Damn.

Cassandra continued. “He's most charmingly wicked, isn't he? The scandal sheets are always full of his wild and reckless affairs.” She sighed. “He's one of England's most ineligible and unattainable catches. My mother would swoon dead away if he came to call, but oh, how I'd like one night in his arms.”

He was indeed sinfully beautiful. That's what made him so dangerous. One smile could make you forget yourself.

“You and every woman in this room,” she muttered under her breath. She didn't know why she said it, because she wasn't supposed to tell anyone, but jealousy made women's tongues reveal things they shouldn't. “I spent a whole day in his company, unescorted.”

Cassandra looked as if she'd faint on the spot. “Never!” she all but squealed. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Oh, you have to tell me more. What was he like? Was he a gentleman? Scrub that—of course he wasn't. What did he say to you? What did you say to him? Goodness, I need to sit down. This is about the most exciting thing that's ever happened to anyone I know.”

Isobel immediately regretted her disclosure. If anyone overheard, she would be thoroughly ruined. But Cassandra was her best friend and would never betray her confidence. They had known each other since the age of thirteen, when she'd been sent to Mrs. Potter's School for Young Ladies. It had been just after her mother died, and Cassandra had shown her nothing but comfort and kindness.

As to her journey with Lord Labourd being exciting, it had in fact been excruciatingly embarrassing. He'd made it very obvious that he thought escorting her home was a total bore. On top of that, he'd interrogated her—that was the only word for it—as if the fact she'd been abducted was her fault.

“My carriage had an accident and Lord Labourd saw me home.” The short version; she'd never talk about her abduction. “He was…an odious traveling companion. He was beautiful until he opened his mouth, and then he was simply obnoxious.”

“Did he try to seduce you?”

“Goodness, no.” Much to her disappointment.

“Did he tell you anything private?”

How did she tell her friend that he'd mostly ignored her completely? “That's why I've never mentioned it before. He didn't converse with me at all.”

Cassandra looked deflated. “You were obviously too beautiful for him.”

Had Cassandra lost her mind?

Cassandra noted her look of disbelief. “If you'd been caught alone with him, he'd have to propose. Several nights ago I overheard him telling Lord Fullerton that the one requirement he had in a wife, when he was ready to take a wife, was that she had to be plain.”

Isobel shook her head. “Are you sure he said that, or was it wishful thinking? His paramours are usually the most beautiful women in all England.”

“Don't be mean. I know I'm not a stunning beauty like you.”

Isobel immediately put her hand on Cassandra's. “I did not mean it like that. You're just as lovely as I. But we cannot hold a candle to the
ton
beauties.”

Cassandra's smile returned. “Of course we could. I also thought his comment odd. I could not hear any more of the discussion, so we will never know why.”

The one hope Isobel took from this conversation was that Lord Labourd admitted he wanted to marry. She could dream, couldn't she? What would it be like married to a man as virile as he? She wasn't sure being his wife would be that much fun, especially if she lost her heart to him. She was sure he would still keep his many mistresses. How did a man who had so many females vying for his attentions deny them?

Finally the dance came to an end and she watched Lord Labourd lead Lady Evangeline from the dance floor. Disappointment surged through her. He was unlikely to dance again this evening.

She inwardly scolded herself for drooling over a man who obviously found women nothing more than disposable pursuits. No more pining, she told herself. She would find a husband from within the group of men who appeared to enjoy a woman's company, and not just in the boudoir.

She turned her back on the crowd and coaxed Cassandra into a conversation about Lady Tessa's new gown. It was the latest fashion from Paris, the neckline indecently low, but the rich, vibrant emerald silk hugged her curves and sparkled in the candlelight. Neither of them could decide whether they liked it, let alone if they'd be bold enough to wear such a gown.

A servant had just offered them another glass of champagne when Cassandra nudged her arm.

“Oh, I say. Isn't that your stepmother in conversation with Lord Labourd? They look very cozy. Do they know each other?”

Isobel swung round to where Cassandra's fan was pointing. The bones of her corset dug into her as she gasped at the sight of Victoria being very familiar with Lord Labourd. Her stepmother's hand was resting on Lord Labourd's chest, and he was studying Victoria, as Isobel imagined a shark would study its next meal.

Her stepmother, Lady Victoria Northumberland, was an enigma. There was nothing Isobel could pinpoint that set her on edge. In fact, since her father's death eighteen months ago, Victoria had been anything other than the mean stepmother. Perhaps it was the fact she had not seemed particularly sad, or indeed surprised, when her father died. Given that he'd died in a suspicious fire, that fact unsettled Isobel.

There was a disturbing coldness about Victoria. She always appeared to be full of gaiety, but her eyes lacked warmth, and she was impossible to read. Isobel always looked for an ulterior motive whenever Victoria did anything.

She managed to stutter, “I—I didn't think they'd been formally introduced.”

“Perhaps their relationship is more informal.” Cassandra raised one of her beautifully shaped eyebrows. “She
is
a widow, and I would not blame her for seeking amusements with a man like Lord Labourd. I don't mean to be rude, but your father was rather old.”

The idea of Victoria and Lord Labourd being lovers made Isobel want to walk over there and scratch Victoria's eyes out. She had to force her fists to uncurl at her sides. Though she hated to admit it, if Lord Labourd was likely to have an affair with anyone, it would be a merry widow. A young virgin debutante would make him run fast and far.

Just when she thought the night couldn't get any worse, the pair turned and looked her way. Victoria was gesturing with her hand and laughing. It was obvious they were discussing her, and Isobel wished the ballroom floor would suddenly splinter beneath her feet and she'd disappear in a cloud of dust.

Instead, she watched, spellbound, caught in Lord Labourd's hypnotic gaze, as Victoria's hand ran down his chest, lower, lower…Isobel gasped, watching her stepmother's fingers brush his groin. Then Victoria moved away from him, leaving him staring straight at Isobel with an intensity that made it seem as if she was some puzzle for him to solve.

She tried to catch her breath and move, because…

“Goodness. He's coming this way. He's coming for you.”

Isobel both feared and hoped Cassandra's words were true. As Lord Labourd prowled closer, all she could think was
Don't faint. Dear God, don't let me faint.

Lord Labourd had known someone was watching him as he danced with Evangeline. There was nothing unusual in that. Women wanted him for his looks, and men wanted him for his money. He'd used his sixth sense and ascertained that his voyeurs were none other than Lady Isobel—and her stepmother, Victoria.

He was sure the villainess who'd been hunting him and his friends was Victoria. He just had to prove it.

Victoria had taunted him this evening, their conversation full of double entendres. She'd snidely played devil's advocate regarding Isobel, almost as if she wanted him to investigate her stepdaughter.

Both of them were engaged in the dance of intrigue. What he didn't know was whether young, virginal-looking Isobel was involved. He hoped to hell she was, because on the dance floor he could feel her eyes upon him as if they were her fingers. And he'd liked it.

If he could seduce her, he might learn the answers he sought. Best of all, he might gain the evidence he needed to stop Victoria before she hurt any more of the people he loved.

From across the room Arend peered through his lowered eyelids at Isobel. She stood next to another of this year's pretty debutantes, deep in conversation, trying to pretend she wasn't watching him. Even now she was still staring at him as if fascinated.

It annoyed him to admit she was a beauty. He'd been trying to ignore the throbbing awareness she caused within his loins whenever he saw her. With her delicate, fine-boned face, flawless ivory skin, and womanly curves, she only had to smile to arouse him. Her blue gown flattered her slender, shapely figure, and he tried not to focus on her firm, high breasts, raising his gaze to her face instead.

She wore her rich dark hair pinned up in an elaborate style, pearls woven into the soft curls. He wondered what the thick tresses would feel like against his naked skin. The thought jarred him out of his sensual haze. She could be the enemy.

She looked so young and innocent, but he knew how deceptive a woman's looks could be.

A beautiful woman had killed his friend, and almost killed him, all for greed. He'd thought she'd loved him, but she'd loved another, a man who almost took everything from him.

The woman had made a mistake. She'd shown her true colors too soon. He'd have quite happily married her, and his diamond mines would have been hers anyway. He was thankful he hadn't. He probably would have been knifed to death in his sleep.

And now, again, he was dealing with another evil bitch. What he wanted to know was, who was aiding Victoria? How did she know their every move?

Ever since he'd accompanied Lady Isobel home after the carriage accident that almost cost Marisa her life, he'd had his suspicions. Why had Isobel been kidnapped too? She had nothing to do with the Libertine Scholars and the enemy vendetta they faced. Was Isobel a spy? Had she been placed in that carriage so they would discount her involvement, and then Isobel could freely feed Victoria information?

His feet moved slowly toward his target, his eyes never leaving her face. When she finally locked gazes with him, the impact made him feel an instantaneous heat—an unwanted physical response, one he thought he'd taught himself to ruthlessly control. He refused to be hostage to a beautiful woman's charms.

To his satisfaction he wasn't the only one affected. She had stiffened at his approach, looking wary and unsettled, the flush upon her face revealing that all her feminine instincts were on keen alert. He watched her shiver, and damn it to hell he felt a response. He could feel himself hardening, all his male instincts roaring to vibrant life.