A Lady's Lesson in Seduction (5 page)

She slumped against him, heart pummeling against her chest. Throb. Oh, God. Throb. Oh,
God
.

Laughing voices broke the spell. She gasped and wrenched away, staggering.

‘Damn it, why are they headed here?’ He put out a hand to steady her. ‘What a damned nuisance.’

Frantically, she smoothed her gown and patted her hair. ‘My God, what am I to do?’

‘Act as if that didn’t just happen,’ he said imperturbably.

‘That’s easy for you to say,’ she snapped.

‘Not really. I’m imagining being ducked in the fishpond, but it’s not working quickly enough.’ He glanced at the bulge in his breeches. ‘Fortunately, I really do have something else to show you.’

‘I must have been out of my mind to let you bring me up here.’ What would people think when they found her alone with the marquis? ‘This will affect not only my reputation, but Almeria’s, as well.’

He picked up the lamp and strode to a set of three portraits—a gentlemen to each side and a lady in the centre. ‘Stop worrying about Almeria. She will marry well, I assure you.’

Because he planned to wed her? That seemed so wrong after what they’d just done. The very thought made Frances ill.

Beneath the portraits was a massive oaken chest with a table next to it. He set the lamp on the table, lifted the lid of the chest and rummaged through it.

Perhaps he merely meant that beautiful heiresses always married well. Or perhaps the sick feeling was because her heart kept thudding and thudding as the voices approached—Lady Warbury’s friendly tones, the Druid’s cheerful ones and Almeria’s laugh.

The marquis brought out a folded strip of linen. He shook out the herbs placed inside to deter insects, handed it to her and shut the chest. ‘Sit.’

She obeyed, he sat next to her, and the door opened. A troop of people armed with bedroom candles entered, followed by the Druid with a lamp. Good grief,
everyone
was here. Alan Folk raised odious brows at the sight of Frances and Cam, while Mrs. Cutlow’s expression was positively green.

‘Strangely enough,’ Lady Warbury was saying, ‘the orchard, which is celebrated each year with pagan rites, was first planted by a Puritan. He would certainly have disapproved of such goings-on.’ She stopped. ‘Oh, there you are, Cam. And Mrs. Burdett. I wondered where you’d gone.’

‘We’re looking at Margery’s embroidery.’ Cam didn’t sound the least bit discomposed. Which wasn’t surprising, supposed Frances, since rakes must often find themselves in compromising situations.

Frances, on the other hand, had never done anything so improper in her life. Horrified that her mortification would show, she kept her eyes on the strip of linen as if she were examining it minutely. On it was embroidered a series of scenes from house and farmyard.

‘Oh, yes, the hobgoblin piece,’ Lady Warbury said. ‘How apropos, since I thought our visitors might like to hear the legend. Isn’t the hob a darling?’

In her flustered state, Frances hadn’t even noticed him—a dark, knobby little fellow with sparse hair jutting from beneath a brown cap, plucking an egg from under a bored-looking hen. ‘Yes, indeed,’ she managed. ‘Almeria, come sit with me and take a look.’

Obligingly, Cam stood to give Almeria his chair. The bulge in his breeches was gone. He had spoken the truth—his erection had subsided on its own.

She dragged her mind back to more proper subjects. ‘See, he’s stealing an egg.’

‘And there he is amongst the raspberries,’ Almeria said. ‘What a charming little man.’ She pointed. ‘And eating cake upon a shelf.’

‘And in the boughs of that apple tree,’ Frances said. Something chased through her mind, a thought or a memory she couldn’t quite catch.

‘It’s thanks to the hobgoblin that we perform the rites of wassail,’ Lady Warbury said.

‘Making the orchard flourish,’ the Druid added.

Both Alan and Mrs. Cutlow rolled their eyes. Lady Warbury ignored them. She motioned to the Druid to hold the lantern higher, illuminating one of the three portraits above the chest—a grumpy-looking Puritan in a wig and square white collar. ‘This is Edward Pale. We lost the estate under Cromwell’s rule, and this man bought it. He seems to have been a good master and landlord, but fiercely against any sort of festivities. He died childless, bequeathing the estate to his wife, Margery, who in turn married Camden’s great-great-grandfather.’

The Druid moved the lantern to show the other two portraits in the group, a richly dressed courtier and his wife.

‘According to the stories, it was because of Duff, our hobgoblin, that she married him,’ Lady Warbury said. ‘Margery did plenty of other stitchery, but legend says she kept this one a secret, working on it only when no one else could see her. She’d heard the tales that hobs and such were survivors from pagan times, and knew she would suffer if her husband learned she’d seen one.’

‘She would have been considered a witch,’ the Druid said. ‘And they might have tried to catch and kill the hob.’

Mrs. Cutlow yawned, and Alan said, ‘Superstitious idiots. There’s no such thing.’

‘Perhaps, perhaps not,’ the Druid retorted. ‘There’s no proof either way.’

‘In any event,’ Cam interposed smoothly, ‘when my great-great-grandfather came a-courting her—courting his estate, to be accurate—she agreed to marry him only when she was certain Duff approved.’

‘What a lot of gammon,’ Alan said. ‘How could she possibly know? That’s a fairy tale if ever I heard one.’

‘Fairy tales are fun,’ Frances said indignantly. ‘Believing in them does no harm.’

‘That makes a good first part for the motto,’ the marquis said with a grin. Firstly, Believe in Fairy Tales, and Secondly, Do No Harm.’

‘What a lovely motto.’ Almeria giggled. ‘I adore fairy tales.’

Alan snorted, glancing from the marquis to Almeria and back. ‘It’s a good thing Cam’s father isn’t alive to hear that. It would have sent him into fits.’

Because Cam was about to propose marriage to a girl who loved fairy tales? Something inside Frances twisted unhappily. He would make her a good husband—would make any woman a good husband…
Please, not Almeria
.

‘His motto was, First, Tell Everyone What to Think, Say, and Do, and Second, Beat It into Them,’ Edwin said. ‘He used to cane Cam for insisting the hob was real.’

‘Oh, how horrid!’ Almeria cried, all big blue eyes and fluttering lashes. Frances gritted her teeth and pretended to examine Margery’s needlework again. When had she become such a jealous cat?

‘Which meant Cam stubbornly insisted all the more,’ Alan said, ‘even when he was well past the age of believing such nonsense.’

‘And I have the scars to prove it,’ Cam said ruefully.

‘You always were a brave boy,’ his mother said.

This time it was Cam who rolled his eyes. ‘Stubborn, you mean.’

‘And so dedicated to the second half of our motto,’ she went on. ‘Always kind-hearted, always determined to do no harm.’

Something crossed his face so quickly Frances wondered if she’d seen it at all in the dim light. ‘Mother, you’re putting me to the blush,’ he said, but whatever that emotion had been, it wasn’t embarrassment.

‘That’s a mother’s privilege,’ Lady Warbury said. ‘I was overjoyed when you reinstituted the wassail and giving the hob Christmas treats. These sorts of traditions are worth perpetuating whether one believes in them or not.’ She took the strip of linen from Frances. ‘Good night, everyone. Cam, please stay and help me for a minute or two.’

Frances went to bed thinking about Cam withstanding his father on principle to the point of being beaten until he bled, and about Margery’s courage in embroidering scenes that might have cost her her life. It was long before she slept, but she fell asleep knowing what she had to do.

* * *

‘No!’ Cam said to his mother. ‘How can you even suggest it?’ Whilst she’d calmly sprinkled herbs and refolded the embroidered linen, she’d also told him he must seduce Frances, of all things!

‘But she’s a widow, dearest, and a very pretty one. It would be no sacrifice on your part.’

She was right about that. He’d never been so aroused in his life as while watching Frances come. The rise and fall of her bosom, the flutter of her lashes, the flush on her lips and cheeks… He’d brought many women to orgasm, but it had never affected him like this.

His mother talked on. ‘She must be lonely, as it’s well over a year since Timothy died. As long as you’re careful not to get her with child, what better opportunity for a dalliance?’

This was precisely what he’d planned, but when his mother put it like that, he wanted to give her a tongue-lashing such as she’d never had in her life. Instead, he managed to say with commendable calm, ‘Frances is a respectable widow, Mama, not a bored wife on the prowl.’

His mother tsked. ‘Frances is a woman, Cam, with desires like any other. Poor dear, she can’t be more than twenty-three or-four, and she scarcely had a taste of marriage before it was over.’ Her eyes gleamed, a sign she was warming to her topic. ‘In fact, since you were so close to Timothy, I believe it’s your
duty
to bring Frances back into the world of the living.’

‘Not with a tawdry house-party tryst.’ Suddenly doubting himself and his well-laid scheme, he strode to the window and parted the curtains to gaze at the white night. He shut them again, turning. ‘Mother, I don’t do that anymore.’

Where had that come from? He had every intention of going right back to his old ways, once he’d taken care of Frances. Now that he thought of it, though, the prospect didn’t hold much appeal.

She gaped at him. ‘You don’t bed pretty women?’ She faltered, looking at nothing but clearly recognizing his recent lack of interest in dalliance. ‘Gracious me, I just thought you’d been more discreet lately. Dear boy, has something happened to you?Are youincapable?’

Good God. ‘No, Mama, of course not.’ He floundered for something to say. ‘I expect…I’ve matured, that’s all.’

That had a daunting ring of truth.

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘You’ve sown all your wild oats.’ That gleam in her eye deepened. Next she would take up matchmaking again, certain the time had come for him to marry.

‘If you want to be useful, try discouraging Mrs. Cutlow from pursuing me. She makes the corridors hazardous at night.’ He left before she could say anything more.

Damn it all, how could he have not seen it before? Frances wasn’t the sort of woman one dallied with. She was the kind of woman one married. But she’d refused to wed again, so what choice did he have but to dally with her, if he was to make amends?

Firstly, Bed Frances Burdett, and Secondly, Do No Harm.

It had seemed good enough as a temporary motto when he’d first considered it. Now all he could think about was what might happen to her after she left his home, newly awakened, newly vulnerable to any idiot in the Polite World.

Not that everyone out there was an idiot. He knew plenty of good fellows. He tried to think of someone who might be perfect for her, but there was no one.

Except him.

* * *

Christmas dawned bright and cold, with Jack Frost’s etchings on the windowpanes. Frances scraped at her window to peek at the white gardens below. They travelled the half mile to and from the village church in two horse-drawn sledges. In the afternoon, clouds gathered and it began to snow again.

The marquis seemed uncharacteristically subdued, but she caught him watching her from time to time. He didn’t try to kiss her again, or touch her, or…or anything. She should be thankful for what he’d done for her so far. He’d made her come alive again. He’d made her want to be new and eager and…everything impossible.

She redrew the design for her embroidery. Now, instead of an orderly flower garden, blackberry canes and wild roses grew in ecstatic profusion.

‘What do you think?’ she asked, when the marquis finally came to take a look.

‘I think you’re a beautiful, desirable, courageous woman,’ he said in that warm voice. ‘No, I
know
you are.’ He smiled, and she shivered with wanting him, from her lips and fingertips all the way to her toes.

He wandered away, dividing his attention amongst all his guests. She should be thankful—this was obviously the best way to handle any repercussions from the night before—but instead she felt bereft.

No matter how welcome his compliments, she was inclined to discount
beautiful
and
desirable
as mere flummery—after all, Timothy had said the same before they’d wed…but then, Timothy had lied about his erection. Anger burned in her breast at the thought that she’d believed everything he’d told her. Maybe he’d fed her more lies.

There was only one way to find out. Was she truly courageous? Her needle proved more obedient now, but symbolic abandon and the real thing were far removed from one another.

If Cam intended to propose to Almeria, this was Frances’s last and only chance to take him up on his suggestion of a passionate affair. She couldn’t do it once he was engaged or married. That went entirely against her beliefs. Even the thought that he
might
marry Almeria made her unsure.

Actually, it made her want to weep, which she set aside as making no sense at all.

Last chance. She trusted the marquis. She couldn’t imagine taking this risk with anyone but him. She couldn’t even imagine
wanting
to. Only with him could she find out, once and for all, whether she was suited to the activities of the marital bed. Not that she intended to remarry—she didn’t—but if she managed to enjoy herself with Lord Warbury, and if she pleased him as well, she wouldn’t feel like a failure anymore. She would start life afresh as a new woman.

And if she failed again, he would be kind, he wouldn’t gossip about her, and she would return to London resigned but safe.

Finally, alone in her chamber in a silent house, she put on her wrapper and slippers and lit her bedroom candle. Her heart thumping pitifully hard, she opened the door and glanced up and down the empty passage. She crept slowly along, and was almost to the back staircase when a board creaked beneath her feet. She hissed but kept on going.