The Seduction of Sara (2 page)

London
January 28, 1815

T
he only thing that stood between Saraphina Lawrence and Hades was a respectable marriage bed. Given her choice, she would have leapt over the bed and raced straight into the flames wearing nothing but the famed Lawrence sapphires, her arms spread wide to embrace the wild heat. It was a pity her brothers wouldn't get out of the way.

“Damn all interfering men,” she muttered, staring morosely out the window of the slow, plodding carriage.

Her aunt's eyes widened in the uncertain light
that shimmered across the silver strands at her temple. “I beg your pardon?”

That was Aunt Delphi's answer to everything—pretend you didn't hear and look annoyingly innocent. So far it had won her a duke who'd had the good grace to die within twelve months of the wedding, and a handsome jointure that gave her a startling amount of independence. Not that Aunt Delphi ever used it.

“I said,
‘Damn all interfering men
,'” Sara repeated more loudly. “I have been grossly misused, and you know it. I was dragged out of my house—”

“To attend the social event of the season.”

“—and forced to ride in this decrepit coach—”

“As if Marcus would have anything other than the best coach made.”

“—just because my brothers are determined to make me into something I'm not.” Sara scowled down at the brightly jeweled slippers that peeped from beneath her skirts. They pinched hideously, and had she not been determined to irritate her brothers' tedious sense of decorum, she wouldn't have worn the gaudy things. She slipped her feet free and wiggled her toes in the cool evening air, ignoring Delphi's look of disapproval.

Though she hated his arrogance, perhaps it was just as well that Marcus had summoned her. It was time they settled this issue once and for all. She was beyond listening to solemn advice; every minute that she walked on the border of ruin and challenged the stolid face of society exhilarated her. For the first time since Julius's death, she felt alive. Alive and free.

Aunt Delphi shook her head. “You have run mad. Since Julius died, you—”

“He died, but I did not. And I refuse to act as if I did.”

Everyone had watched and waited for her to show some remorse, some hint of sadness, but she felt nothing. Not after her handsome husband died much the way he'd lived—with his breeches about his ankles and his private member where it didn't belong. It was no wonder Lady Georges had retired to the country after his death; it must have been a shock to watch her near-naked lover fall out of her carriage when her screams of ecstasy frightened the skittish horses into bolting.

Even worse was the fact that the entire
ton
knew the sordid truth. It had been the whispered joke of the season. The mere thought of it pinched Sara's pride worse than her shoes ever could. But strangely, the pain of Julius's public betrayal had freed her in a way that his death hadn't. She would never again waste her life trying to be something she was not, no matter what Marcus said. “My brother should pay more attention to his own affairs and stop tormenting me.”

“He cares about you, Sara. All of your brothers do.”

“And I care about them. But I don't go around telling them what to do. Marcus has sway over my funds until I am twenty-five years old, and then I am free. If he wants any peace in the next four years, he'll let me be.”

Shaking her head, Aunt Delphi regarded her
niece with compassion. While Sara's behavior might befuddle her brothers, Delphi understood it perfectly. Before Sara had married, there had always been a touch of wildness to her. She'd ridden harder, laughed louder, and been more spontaneous than any gently bred woman should be. But she'd always been surrounded by her brothers, all five of them startlingly handsome and larger than life, just as passionate in nature as their sister. To them, Sara was just Sara—exuberant and in love with life.

Then Sara had met Julius and all her passion had focused on one man: she had loved him dearly. Julius had been in love, as well, for his marriage had shocked his friends even more than it had Sara's. She was not the sweet, demure miss everyone expected him to wed.

But the relationship was doomed from the beginning. Julius, for all his wild ways, was brought up in a very traditional manner; he had one place in his life for his wife and another for his mistresses. Meanwhile, Sara came from a large, extended family and her ideas were quite different. She believed that love included complete fidelity and it never crossed her mind that her husband might believe otherwise. Had Sara been older, perhaps she would have demanded Julius give up his paramours. But she'd been seventeen, with no mother to confide in and too proud to ask for advice.

Delphi smoothed her silk skirts, a heavy lump in her throat. If she had not been so occupied with silly society pursuits, she might have been able to help
her niece during what must have been an increasingly confusing and painful time. But Delphi, like everyone else, had missed the desperation of Sara's subsequent actions. Directed by Julius's critical mother and condescending sisters, she traded her sparkle for a distressingly cool elegance. To Delphi, it seemed that Sara's natural exuberance died a slow and agonizing death while all hint of happiness faded from her eyes.

And the more Sara changed, the unhappier Julius became as the very things that had captivated him about his young wife disappeared. By the time Julius died he and Sara were little more than strangers, while the manner of his tragic death had finally awakened her family to the true state of affairs.

Delphi slanted a glance at her niece and noted the unhappiness that darkened Sara's blue eyes. It was too late to do anything about Julius's behavior, but there was still a chance she could help her niece. And thanks to Marcus, that was exactly what Delphi intended to do. “Sara, promise me you will listen to your brother. He only wants what's best for you.”

“He wants what is
easiest
for him,” Sara said. “There is a wide gap between the two.”

The carriage turned a corner and came to a halt. Her heart heavy, Delphi lifted the curtain and peered outside. Treymount House was the largest residence in Mayfair, boasting a magnificent ballroom and two grand salons. The carriage pulled into the long line in front of the brightly lit house. Horses
neighed and link boys darted between the carriages, while a welter of footmen jostled for position.

Even though it was still months away from the season, everyone flocked to London for the annual Treymount ball, a tradition set by the late marquis in what Delphi thought was a vulgar display of wealth. But it worked. It didn't matter how poor the roads were, how frigid the wind, or how inconvenient it was to return to London in the middle of winter; the Treymount ball was a huge success each and every year.

Sara looked out at the crowded street. “It looks like someone kicked over an anthill.”

It certainly did. People clamored for an invitation to Treymount, and frankly, Delphi didn't blame them. It wasn't just the residence, imposing as it was, or the sumptuous entertainment, but more the way the entire St. John family exuded power and arrogance, unconsciously reminding one that here was the embodiment of true nobility.

The carriage finally arrived at the front door, and soon she and Sara were walking toward the entryway, breathing in the spicy scent of the flowers strewn down each side of the red carpet to mask the unpleasant scents of the winter-grim city. Muted laughter and music swelled to meet them as they entered the great hall.

Marcus was not at the head of the receiving line, but was waiting in the library for Sara's arrival. Which was a good thing, Delphi decided as she handed her cloak to a waiting servant, shivering slightly in the chill. It was about time Marcus
took a more direct hand in managing his sister's affair. She turned just as Sara undid the clasp of her own blue-velvet cloak and swept it from her shoulders.

Oh dear, no.
Sara's sapphire blue gown was low cut and diaphanous enough to cause even the most risqué of the
ton
to raise their brows. And draped over Sara's lush figure, it was beyond scandalous. It was a complete disgrace.

From beneath the edge of the silk peeked sparkling slippers, while a cacophony of sapphires covered her throat, head, and arms. It seemed a bad omen that Sara had worn every piece of the Lawrence sapphires, from the wide gold necklet to the sparkling tiara that held her shining black curls from her face. To Delphi, the deep blue gems echoed the desperate brilliance of Sara's eyes.

Sara smoothed her skirts, the unconscious gesture pushing her breasts into a precarious position at the edge of her neckline. Swallowing hard, Delphi nervously fingered her own decorous bracelet. Already people had begun to recognize Sara. And while some of Delphi's friends could be counted on to halt any talk that resulted from such an outrageous costume, others would seek Sara out, determined to discover an interesting tidbit that could be exaggerated into a scandal. The bracelet broke with a snap. “Blast!”

Sara looked at the broken bracelet, her gaze softening slightly. “Don't worry about me, Aunt Delphi. I will be fine.”

“Not unless you listen to your brother.”

The softened expression vanished, and the new, coolly elegant Sara lifted one barely clad shoulder. “Marcus can go to hell.”

“At least meet with him, Sara. Please. He's waiting for you in the library.”

Sara met Delphi's gaze for a long moment, then she sighed. “Oh, very well; I suppose I had best get this over with. The sooner he realizes he can't order me about like a servant, the better.” Her back ramrod straight, Sara turned and walked out of the foyer, her silk skirts brushing the floor behind her, draping across the graceful length of her legs.

For a dismal moment, Delphi wondered if she should accompany her niece. But the days had long passed since she could hug away Sara's hurts. Delphi closed her eyes.
Please, God, grant Marcus the patience of a saint. He's going to need it.

 

Sara marched to the library, threw open the door, and halted. She'd expected to see Marcus behind his desk, his face carved in disapproval. Instead she found herself facing three of her five older brothers, their expressions ranging from outright disapproval to genuine concern.

“Damn,” Sara muttered. “If Brand and Devon were here, it would be the whole bloody army.”

“What a lovely way to greet your family.” Chase stood by the fire, his broad shoulders resting against the mantel. Hair the color of a raven's wing and eyes the purest blue, he was the youngest of her five brothers, and the most intemperate. Right now, his face was rigid with anger, his arms
crossed over his chest in stiff disapproval. “I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at anything you say or do. Not after seeing you at Hell's Door.”

Marcus looked up from where he sat at his desk, his dark eyes glinting. “Hell's Door? Not Farley's newest gaming hell?”

“That's the one,” Chase said. “Our dearest sister was there not a fortnight ago.”

“Where I saw you,” she replied calmly. “If it's not a fit place for me, then it's not a fit place for you.”

Chase flushed. “I'm not female. Nor am I so green that I don't know an ivory turner at a glance.”

“No, you just lose your shirt at the faro table and then stumble out the door on your merry way.”

Chase pushed himself from the mantel, his jaw set. “Now, see here—”

“Easy, children,” Anthony said in a lazy murmur from the settee by the fire.

Sara caught a glimmer of understanding in his brown eyes. Her half brother was the only one who had, at one time, understood her. With tawny gold hair and brown eyes, he was the very image of their mother. Anthony's father had died of a fever within a year of his marriage, leaving behind Anthony, who was barely three months old, and a lovely widow, who promptly fell in love with the tempestuous Marquis of Treymount, Sara's father.

The marquis had been a passionate man who firmly believed in family. Deeply in love with his wife, he fully welcomed Anthony as the oldest of
his soon-growing brood and made it a point to never distinguish between any of his children. They accepted one another without question and only Anthony's name bore evidence that he was not a St. John.

She nodded to him now. “Anthony.”

“Sara. You look well.”

“She looks like a hardened flirt,” Chase said, glowering. “Look at that gown.”

“Indeed,” Marcus said, his deep voice a threatening rumble. “It's time someone put a stop to your antics, Sara.”

She lifted her chin, controlling the anger that flashed through her at his high-handed tone. She had to remind herself that he was not used to being challenged.

Marcus was often called “the Golden Treymount” for his almost mystical ability to turn his investments into cold, hard coin. Men eagerly watched where he invested and followed his lead by the score.

Sara slid a glance at the all-powerful Marquis of Treymount, the patriarch of the family since the death of their parents. He was a man who reveled in his ability to command. His icy gaze was fastened on her with brooding intent, the hard line of his jaw seemingly carved in granite.

Annoyance made her hand curl into a fist. She was not afraid of Marcus. In a way, he was just like her—born with the desire to force fate onto his path, instead of the other way around. Perhaps that was why they couldn't speak without arguing. She
walked to a small chair near Anthony and stood beside it, unwilling to sit. “Where are Brand and Devon?”

Anthony answered. “Brandon is missing, as is his wont of late.”

“It must be a woman,” Chase said with a smirk. “He always has a flirt in progress somewhere.”

“And Devon?” Sara asked.

Marcus stood and came around to the front of the desk, picking up a leather box as he went. “I sent him to Bristol to see about our shipping interests, or he would be here as well.”