A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband) (18 page)

Thank God we didn’t shake hands
. Alexander shot a glance at his empty plate. The only one eating food in the room was the duke. He cleared his throat and said in an even voice, “It seems Lord Jared has enamored himself with several of the young females in Amberden.”

“And that’s a concern?”

“He’s gotten them pregnant.”

The duke folded his hands over his protruding stomach and tilted his head to one side. “And that’s a concern?” he repeated.

Alexander forced himself to remain calm. “It is to the young women and their parents who are left in disgrace.”

“How can they consider being impregnated by a duke’s son a disgrace?” A slow smile spread over his thick lips. “They should consider it an honor.”

No wonder Jared Crayton scattered his seed like a farmer sowing his crop. “An honor, Your Grace?” He felt his heart racing in his chest. This pompous deviant thought these young girls should consider it an honor to carry his son’s child? “They’ve been ruined.”

“In what manner? We all know those peasant girls start rolling around in the fields with boys from the time they can lift their skirts.” He chuckled. “Sweet young pieces of flesh, I’ll wager.”

“One of the girls your son is after,” Alexander said, his left hand balling into a fist, “happens to be someone I know.”

“Oh?” A grizzled eyebrow lifted. “Do tell.”

“Her name is Francie Jordan. She’s the Earl of Montrose’s daughter. And she’s my...sister.” He hesitated. The word felt worse than dirt in his mouth but he pushed on. “Not my sister by blood, more by association.”

“Are you pounding her, Bishop?” the duke asked, leaning forward a little, his rheumy eyes bright, his thick lips wet.

“No!” Alexander said, outraged to hear the old man utter such vileness about Francie. “No,” he repeated in a calmer tone. “But I have a responsibility to her. And now to her village. When Miss Jordan spurned your son’s advances, he beat her aunt.”

That caught the duke’s attention. “The hell you say. Have you proof?”

“I have the aunt’s word.”

“Bah! A commoner’s word is no better than a pile of manure.”

“Please, Your Grace, I need your help.”

“Hmmm,” the duke murmured, his sausage-like fingers stroking the ruby and gold ring on the middle finger of his left hand. “What do you expect me to do?”

“Stop your son before he impregnates the whole village,” Alexander said. “Keep him away from Francie.”

“And if I do
, Bishop? What’s in it for me?”

“The knowledge you’ve saved the village. They will be forever indebted to you for your assistance.”

The duke grunted. “I think I’d rather have a piece or two of young flesh. What about it, Bishop?” His lips pulled into a smile. “Bring me two young girls. If they’re pregnant already, even better. Do that and I’ll help you.”

Alexander didn’t know if he should twist the old man’s cravat around his neck or just pummel his swollen face and be done with it. He clung to his last shreds of control. “I can’t, Your Grace.”

“Then I can’t help you, Bishop,” he said, steepling his fat fingers under his lips.

You won’t help me
. Alexander stood and bowed toward the worthless piece of flesh sprawled in the chair before him. “Thank you for granting me this audience, Your Grace.”

The Duke of Worthington nodded. Alexander turned and headed toward the door, anxious to take his leave. He’d handle Jared Crayton himself. He had his hand on the knob when the duke’s voice reached him. “Bishop.”

“Your Grace?” He stopped but did not turn around.

The duke belched. “If you change your mind, I’ll take a blonde...and a redhead.”

The door slammed shut, closing out the duke’s cackling laughter, but his crude remarks clung to Alexander, teasing and tormenting him with their depravity.

Only one thing remained certain. Alexander would take care of Jared Crayton. Wherever,
whenever, however.

***

“You’re a vision, child,” Eleanor whispered, smiling up at her niece. “A true vision.”

Francie fingered the gold silk of her ball gown. “It feels wonderful.” She twirled around, watching her skirts swish about her ankles. “It’s so soft against my skin.”

“There’s nothing like silk,” her aunt said with a warm smile that deepened the dimples on both sides of her mouth. “But satin’s a very close second.”

Francie’s own smile faded as she looked at the old woman’s gray muslin gown. “Oh, Aunt Eleanor, didn’t you ever miss this life?” She raised her hands in a helpless gesture. “You once lived in a grand house twenty times the size of ours with servants who called you Lady Eleanor.” Her eyes misted. “You gave up so much. For me.”

“And I’d do it all over again, child,” Aunt Eleanor said, leaning forward in the overstuffed pink and gold floral chair she sat in. She reached for Francie’s hand, her blue eyes serious. “You’ve given me more happiness than I ever could have imagined possible.” Her voice quivered as she added, “You were the child Bernard and I never had.”

“But didn’t you miss this?” Francie waved her hand about the room, indicating the deep, rich mahogany furniture, the heavy damask draperies, and the satin counterpane.

“How could I when I had you?” Her aunt squeezed her hand and pulled her closer. “You’re the one who gave up this life, and you didn’t even know it.”

“I love my life in Amberden,” Francie said, with a protective fierceness that surprised even her. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not one thing, Aunt Eleanor. Wearing these clothes is like a fairy tale.” Her lips curved into a soft smile. “But I’d rather be running barefoot in a field of clover wearing breeches.”

“Just so long as they’re not Alexander’s breeches,” her aunt said.

Francie scrunched up her nose. “He’s such an old spoilsport. I only borrowed them. Once.”

Aunt Eleanor chuckled, her plump face rosy. “Once was more than enough for him, I daresay.” She raised a gray brow. “Has he seen your gown yet, child?”

Heat rose from Francie’s neck to the tip of her forehead. Her father and Uncle Bernard had both asked the same question. “Why do you ask?” She cast a glance at the oval mirror to her right. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with this gown.”

It was beautiful. Anyone would agree. The gold silk fell in a gracious cascade, shimmering about her hips and legs. Burgundy trim accented the simple, elegant lines, dipping and curving to enhance the design. But to some, most notably, Alexander Bishop, there might be just a bit too much “dip” in the bust line. She eyed the pale flesh peeking out over the top of the bodice.

Perhaps she should not have taken Madame Druillard’s suggestion to change the design from demure to daring. “
Is
there something wrong with it, Aunt Eleanor?” she asked.

“No, child,” her aunt replied. “Trust me. It’s perfect.”

***

“Get back upstairs, right now, and change,” Alexander barked.

Francie took another step down the spiral staircase. “There’s nothing wrong with my gown.”

Nothing wrong, indeed. She was falling out of it, her full, ripe breasts pushing against the gold material, just begging for attention. She’d get it all right. She’d have every man aching to touch and fondle her before the night ended. Not
himself ,of course; he wasn’t aroused by such blatant displays of a woman’s charms.

She took another step, closing the distance between them. Alexander didn’t want to notice the way her red hair shimmered with seed pearls, gathered on top of her head and left to trail down in tiny ringlets, just so, in a most alluring fashion. He tried to ignore the sleek line of her neck. What would it be like to brush aside those ringlets and place a light, chaste kiss below her ear? She’d smell like lavender. That was her scent. Whenever she was near, it filled his senses, teased, and tormented him.

She was six steps away. Her silk dress rustled as she moved, swirling about her hips, cascading over her thighs, one constant motion, closing the gap between them. Closer, closer. His gaze inched from the gold satin slippers upward. To knees, thighs, hips, jumped over breasts and fled to her neck, chin, nose, eyes, hair. And back to her sky-blue eyes.

He would not look at her bodice again. “Francie,” he said, annoyed she hadn’t listened the first time. “Go upstairs and change that gown.”

“No.” She stepped onto the marble foyer.

Did she plan to defy him?
Apparently so. “Fine. If you want to look like you work in a brothel, do not be surprised when the customers begin lining up.”

He might as well have slapped her across the face. She stepped back, or maybe stumbled, her blue eyes wide with hurt, her full lips quivering.

He would not feel sorry for her. She’d brought this situation on herself. He turned and stalked off to his study, trying to block the muffled sound of her retreating slippers. Had he just heard a whimper or two? Blast the woman! He would not feel sorry for her. If she refused to change that damnable gown, well, then, she’d have to face a bevy of ogling, mauling men on her own. He wasn’t going to help her. Not one bit. But even as he let the words flow through his brain, he knew they were lies. If anyone touched Francie, he’d smash his face in.

***

“Just look at those two, Bernard.” Philip chuckled, shifting in his chair on the fringe of the ballroom. “They haven’t been within twenty feet of each other since the ball began.”

Bernard shook his head. “I fear your plan has backfired, my friend.”

“Backfired?” the earl bellowed. “I couldn’t be more pleased.”

“They aren’t speaking to one another,” Bernard pointed out.

“I know,” Philip said, smiling.

“They’ve stayed on opposite ends of the ballroom.”

“I know.” Philip’s smile deepened.

“They’ve had numerous dance partners.”

“I know.”

“But not each other,” Bernard added.

“I know.”

“Well, I don’t know.”
Bernard scratched his gray head. “I don’t know at all. What I do know is when a man and woman are interested in one another, they usually communicate in some form, spoken or unspoken.”

“Oh, they’re communicating all right,” the earl said, sipping his sherry.

“What language might they be speaking?” Bernard inquired. “I know seven quite fluently and I don’t recognize it as any one of those.”

Philip leaned toward his friend and whispered, “It’s the language of love.”

Bernard raised a brow. “Language of love? You’ve gone off the deep end.”

“Bah! You’ve had your head in those damnable books too many years.” Philip pointed a large finger at the dance floor. “Observe. Alex is waltzing with that young lady, but every time he turns, his gaze shoots to Francie. Very subtle, but if you keep your eyes on him, you’ll notice.” Both men watched as Alexander took his partner through the steps, twirled her around, and swept his gaze over Francie and her partner.

“I’ll be damned,” Bernard whispered.

“Exactly,” Philip said with a knowing look. “But she’s been doing the same thing to him. Watch.” They followed Francie this time, saw her smile at her partner, dance, one, two, three and turn, her gaze flitting over Alexander and then past, as though quite by accident.

“So, you see,” Philip said, “they’re mad for one another but both too stubborn to do anything about it.”

“Well, by the way the young suitors are swarming around Francie, Alexander better make his intentions known
quickly.”

“Exactly,” the earl said. “She’ll have ten calling cards tomorrow if she has one. You’ll see, Bernard,” he said, taking another sip of sherry. “The next forty-eight hours will prove very interesting indeed.”

“Who is the woman in the blue dress?” Francie asked the young man who’d fetched her punch. Lord Steven something or other. She couldn’t quite remember but thought it had to do with some sort of bird. Pheasant? Peacock? Pigeon? No. None of those. There had been such a string of men for the past two hours, it was difficult to match faces and names.

“You mean the one standing by the punch bowl? The one who’s been dancing with Alexander Bishop?” the young man asked.

“I hadn’t noticed her partner,” Francie said, sipping her punch. What a fib. She’d seen her in Alexander’s arms half the evening. Gazing up into those silver eyes. Smiling. Laughing. Oh, and he’d been doing the same. Alexander Bishop laughing! She’d not have believed it if she hadn’t witnessed it herself. Gone was the surly antagonist who never showed anything but censure toward her. He was a different man with this blonde-haired beauty. Quite different, indeed.

“Lady Printon,” Lord Steven what’s-his-name answered. “She and Mr. Bishop are an item, if you will.”

Tess
. “I see,” Francie muttered, taking in the other woman’s gold-blonde beauty. Even with her curls piled high on her head, she barely reached Alexander’s shoulder. From a distance it was difficult to discern the color of her eyes, but Francie guessed they’d be some unique, mesmerizing color like aquamarine or emerald. Or maybe even dark topaz.

The woman’s pale complexion sparkled with diamonds—chokers on her neck, teardrops dangling from her ears, even her fingers were covered in brilliance. Were any of those gifts from Alexander? As for neckline, good heavens, the woman’s plunged much lower than Francie’s! How did she stay tucked in? Had Alexander told Lady Printon she looked like she belonged in a brothel? Doubtful. She watched his full lips spread into a slow smile as he bent to whisper something in her ear. The woman laughed and tilted her head back just enough to expose her slender neck.