A Season of Seduction (22 page)

Becky snapped to attention as clammy fingers stroked her neck. She jumped up out of the chair, spinning to look at the person who’d touched her. Blinking in surprise, she studied the stranger. Beyond him, the party continued. She’d been so engrossed in the horrid conversation behind the screen that she had forgotten where she was.

The Frenchman wore a mustard-colored domino, a simple brown half-mask, and a felt cap, and he didn’t look familiar at all. Obviously deep in his cups, he reeked of spirits. She racked her brain, trying to recall if Mrs. Pionchet had introduced her to this man. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember. There were many Frenchmen in this crowd, and Becky’s attention had waned after the first dozen nameless introductions.

“Just resting… er… monsieur,” she responded, trying to be polite even as the skin on the back of her neck crawled from his touch.

He reached up a finger to trace her collarbone. It was an attempt at a seductive gesture, but Becky yanked herself away, feeling unconscionably soiled. Appalled, she gazed into his bleary eyes. A hazy recollection of the rules of propriety came to her, insisting she slap him across the face and march away. But that awareness came too late. His fingers wrapped around her neck, and he heaved her against him.

“Just one leetle kiss, eh?” he murmured down at her, his acrid alcoholic breath washing over her face.

Panic surged through Becky. They were surrounded by people, but no one paid them any heed—not here. His arms wrapped around her, solid bands of iron, pinning her against him.

A pair of thin, shiny lips descended toward hers.

No. This was
not
going to happen. She was going to severely damage his ballocks. She nudged her knee between his legs, as if she were snuggling closer. He sighed in pleasure, clearly thinking she’d submitted to his irresistible amorous advances.

And then he jerked away from her, his hands wrenched from her body so forcefully she could feel the strain on her buttons. She gasped from shock at the sudden movement, and looking up, she saw a suntanned hand gripping the man’s mustard-silk-covered shoulder.

“Jack.” She said it in an almost-whisper, her voice replete with relief, happiness, true pleasure. She gazed up at him, but he didn’t look at her. Instead, he gazed down at the stranger from behind a plain black mask, his features implacable.

“Go away.” His voice was pleasant, but there was an edge to it that sharpened each word to a dagger point. “And you will never approach this lady again, do you understand?”

“Ah,” said the Frenchman with a bleary smile. “You tink she ees yours?”

Jack’s dark eyes slid for the briefest of seconds to Becky and then returned to focus on the stranger. “Yes,” he said, quiet but very certain of himself. “She is mine.”

And then he shoved him away. The Frenchman stumbled backward into a group of revelers, who seemed to think a man literally crashing into their group was the funniest thing they’d ever seen. They helped him up as one, then saw him off with multiple pats to the back, no one sparing a glance at either Becky or Jack.

“Oh, Jack. I’m so glad you’re here.”

His features didn’t soften. He stared at her. “You were kissing that man.”

His eyes flashed with hurt. He thought… oh, God! She shook her head vehemently. “No! He grabbed me. I was trying to defend myself—”

Jack made a scoffing noise. “Didn’t look like it to me.”

She closed her eyes to stave off a sudden onslaught of tears. Her hands shook at her sides. Now that it was over, the horror of what had just happened surged through her. The man could have dragged her out of this place screaming, and no one would have done a thing.

Her knees softening, she sank back onto the chair.

“He was going to kiss me,” she said, trying desperately to keep her voice level. “At first I panicked, but then I just wanted to get away. I was going to knee him in the… in the…” She looked up at him, unable to finish.

Jack studied her for a long moment, and then his lips tightened. His entire expression transformed to a different sort of anger. Becky knew he believed her.

“Did he hurt you?”

“He grabbed me very hard—”

Jack’s eyes narrowed to slits and his hands curled into fists. He turned, obviously searching for the Frenchman, but she grabbed his arm.

“But no, he didn’t hurt me.” She gave him a shaky smile. “I am all right, truly. Just a little frightened, I suppose. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before.”

Appearing somewhat mollified, Jack glanced around them. The guests grew more intoxicated by the minute, it seemed, and people touched and embraced in full view of everyone in the room. Becky no longer heard the voices of the two ladies beyond the screen—they’d probably gone off to make their own conquests.
The hypocrites
, she thought bitterly.

“Why are you here?” Jack asked.

“Cecelia brought me. I was curious.” At this moment, that seemed like a very weak reason to come. “People haven’t recognized me—I heard them talking about me, about my family. And then that man… Oh, Jack, I want to leave.”

He gave a sharp nod. “Of course.”

“I mean… I just want to get away. Not only from this, but from everything.” She should return to Calton House as she’d originally planned… but she couldn’t abandon Kate.

“I understand,” Jack said.

Wrapping her arms around her body, she stared up at him. “I wish I could leave London. Leave the judgment of others far behind. Go someplace where none of it exists.”

Even in Yorkshire, this scandal would exist. The insults would not be as overt as they were in London; instead, they’d be brutal in their subtlety.

“Come.” Jack reached for her hand. “I’ll take you away.”

He helped her from the chair and they slipped out of the enormous ballroom. Jack led her to a carriage—Lord Stratford’s, she assumed—and when Jack began to tuck a heavy fur over her, she remembered her friend. “Oh, dear. Cecelia is on the terrace. She won’t know where I have gone.”

“I’ll take care of it. Stay right here.” Leaving her in the warmth of the carriage, Jack returned to the house. After a few short minutes, he returned. “I informed Lady Devore that you’re with me.”

She smiled gratefully at him. Jack went to speak with the coachman, and Becky untied her mask and set it aside before settling against the violet velvet squabs, allowing herself to relax for the first time in hours. Finally, Jack sat on the cushion beside her. He tossed his mask to the opposite bench and leaned back. When the carriage lurched into motion, he took her hand. “I’m sorry. I should have come earlier.”

“I hadn’t expected you to come at all, and I’m so glad you did,” she said with heartfelt sincerity.

“I wasn’t certain you would be here, but Stratford had mentioned Lady Devore had been invited, and he told me exactly what kind of gathering it was. If you had come with her—well, I decided to make an appearance, just to make sure you were all right.”

She gave him a quizzical look. “
That
was why you came? To be certain I was all right?”

His eyes didn’t stray from hers. “Yes.”

For some reason, her throat felt thick, and tears burned at her eyes. Perhaps she was just tired.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Chapter Twelve

I
t took longer than Jack had predicted before she suspected anything. She’d scooted away from him, drawing the curtain shut as if in an attempt to block out the world, and she’d leaned against the carriage door and closed her eyes.

Eventually, she straightened and turned to him. “Shouldn’t we be in Mayfair by now? Or at least deeper in Town…”

He chose his words carefully. “I’m not returning you to Lady Devore’s house.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“You said you wanted to go away. So I’m taking you away.”

“But I can’t leave London! Kate is nearing her—”

Raising his hand, he pressed two gloved fingers to her lips. “Ssh. I told Lady Devore where we’re going. If anything should happen to your sister-in-law, she’ll make certain we’re informed immediately.”

Her mouth opened as if in protest, then she snapped it shut. Then she opened it again. “But—if anyone… we’ll be the laughingstock of the
ton
.”

“Nonsense.” He took her hand in his own and traced his finger over the soft, delicate flesh of the back of her hand. “No one but Lady Devore—and Stratford, when I send the carriage back to him—will know. We’ll be completely alone.”

She stared at him. Shock, fear, denial, anticipation—all of it passed over her expression in waves.

“And if people do find out—well, weren’t you the one who said scandal didn’t touch you?”

“Yes. But I was wrong. When it affects my whole family’s reputation—” she hesitated, then finished, “—it hurts.”

He tried not to grimace. He hated that she’d been hurt. He hated that people spoke ill of her. How could they? She was the most beautiful, sweetest, most intelligent, most fascinating woman he’d ever encountered.

Frustration tugged at his nerves. He wished he could approach all the busybody gossips in London and wring the cruelty from the marrow of their bones. He couldn’t, of course, but he could provide her some peace.

“We’re going to the house I’ve let near Richmond. We’ll be away from London, yet close enough to return on a moment’s notice.” He curled his fingers around her hand and squeezed. “You need freedom from the city right now. I can give that to you. Let me.”

“My brother would never approve of this,” she murmured.

“It is your life, not his.”

“He will find us. He nearly killed you once already.”

Jack raised a cynical brow. “What gives you the idea that he nearly killed me?”

“There was murder in his eyes when he found us at Sheffield’s Hotel.”

“Murder in his eyes does not equate to my death.”

“You don’t know my brother. What he…” Her voice dwindled, and she looked away. “When Garrett is determined to follow a certain course, nothing can deter him.”

“I could.”

For long moments, she stared out the window in silence. They drove along the river’s edge, a full moon casting a dim glow over the road. In the distance, the black water of the Thames peeped out from between the dry branches of the brush.

Finally, she turned back to him. “Do you still wish to marry me?”

“Yes.”

The muscles across his back tensed as he waited for her to respond, wondering if she’d order him to return her to Lady Devore’s this instant or whether she’d agree to wed him right here, right now.

“This is an attempt… a ruse intended to coerce me into agreeing to becoming your wife.”

That staggered him into silence. Not so very long ago it would have been a Machiavellian tactic he’d approve of.

But since witnessing her vulnerable reaction to that stranger’s amorous embrace, he’d wanted nothing more than to take her far away. To shelter her from the lecherous gazes and the prying eyes and the harsh tongues that surrounded her. To hold her, to protect her from all of it. To keep her safe. And he knew the perfect place to do that—the house he’d planned for them to live in after their marriage.

He gazed into her eyes and said with complete honesty, “It’s not a ruse. I wasn’t thinking about marrying you when I told Cecelia about it, or when I instructed the coachman where to drive. I was thinking only of your desire to get away.”

Long minutes of silence passed before she spoke again. “What if you succeed, Jack? You convince me that you will make me a good husband. You make me believe that we will be happy together. And then I marry you.” Her eyes shone indigo in the murky gloom inside the carriage. “But what if you don’t? What if you rip it all away the moment we are married? What if it is impossible for me to attain happiness? What if it is impossible for me to ever be happy again?”