An Accidental Seduction (16 page)

“What?” she asked.

“A bit harsh,” he said.

She lowered her eyes. “Sometimes I can seem that way when I’m nervous.”

“I make you nervous?”

She shrugged. Best to keep him talking…and drinking. “You’re a powerful man, my lord. Surely you can see why I might feel the need to put up barriers between us.”

“There will be no need for barriers tonight,” he said, and prepared to rise, but Gallagher all but leapt into the room.

“My lady’s drink,” he said, and presented Savaana with a thimbleful of the Tuica he’d found earlier. She refrained from raising her brows at the minuscule amount.

“Now, my lord…” Gallagher said, striding to the baron. “Drink up, then I shall remove your boots.”

Tilmont laughed as he gazed at the tumbler. It was still half full. “You must think me quite a lush if you believe I can finish this so quickly.”

“Not a’tall,” Gallagher said.

“Oh no,” agreed Savaana. She could feel the Irishman’s harsh gaze on her, but she continued, unabashed. “You’re simply sophisticated.”

“Sophisticated is not quite the term my father uses,” Tilmont said, and chuckled. He sounded sleepy. Thank God. And Gallagher, she supposed.

“A sophisticated man is
expected
to drink a good deal,” Savaana said. A muscle jumped in Gallagher’s jaw. “To maintain his standing in society.” Ignoring the brandy, she pretended to take a deep swig from the bottle.

“Yes but…” Tilmont began and made to rise.

Gallagher rushed forward, already squatting to pull off his first boot. “There now, my lord, you must be exhausted after your fright.”

Tilmont scowled. “I am a bit fatigued. And my shoulders ache something dreadful.” They sagged as he leaned back. “The mare father gave me is naught but a screw.”

“Yet another reason to train the gelding quickly,” Gallagher said, slowly slipping the boot from the baron’s foot. “His paces are quite smooth.”

“It can’t be soon enough, then,” Tilmont said, and sighed. “It does little for my reputation when others see me riding such a bone setter.”

“Of course not,” Gallagher agreed, and moved on to the second foot. If he moved any slower the leather would disintegrate and fall aside on its own, Savaana thought, but finally the boots were placed side by side next to the chair.

“Well, then…” Tilmont said, and shifted, but Savaana hurried across the floor.

“Let me attempt to ease your ache, my lord,” she said, and stepped behind him to set her hands to his shoulders.

Gallagher rose to his feet, eyes snapping, but she ignored him as she massaged gently.

“Ahhh,” Tilmont said, rolling his head to the side. “That does feel quite lovely.”

“Try to relax,” Savaana said.

“Let me pour you a little more gin,” Gallagher insisted.

And finally, after they had schemed and massaged and cajoled, Tilmont fell asleep, his head slumped against his chest like an overused doll of rags.

T
hey stared at each other over the baron’s slumped head.

Let me ease your ache?
Gallagher mouthed the words.

Savaana shrugged, a lifetime of frustration and anger showing in her sharp expression. But he felt the same emotions.

“Just what kind of ache did you have in mind?” he rasped.

“Well, it was successful, wasn’t—” she began, then stopped abruptly. “He’s my husband,” she hissed.

“Is he?” Gallagher began, but then Tilmont rasped a staccato snore, causing them both to start. Grabbing her arm, Sean pulled her toward the door. Opening it a crack, he glanced left and right, then tugged her into the hall. In a moment they were inside his room.

“Who are you?” His voice was raspy.

“Me!” she growled, and twisted from his grip. “How did he know you?”

“What?”

“The baron…” She waved wildly toward her own room. “He knew you before you were introduced.”

“You’re deluded.”

“He was about to call you the Irishman.”

“I
am
the Irishman.”

“He—” she began, then changed tactics abruptly. “How did you know he was my husband?”

“He was pounding on your door, calling your name. I only hope there aren’t a host of others who feel they could do the same.”

She thought about that for an instant, then shook her head. “You knew before. You knew his voice.”

“And you did not,” he said. For a moment he thought she blanched. “You are not Clarette Tilmont.”

“And you are not sane,” she said, leaning toward him for emphasis. “Of course I’m Clarette.”

“Then why aren’t you with him?”

She hesitated for an eternal breath of time. Her eyes flashed but her face looked pale and earnest. “Perhaps it is because I wish to be with you.”

The world stood still, waiting. And damn him, he wanted to believe. “Is that the truth?”

“Yes.” Her voice was throaty, her eyes sincere, but he wouldn’t be a fool.

“Swear it on your mother’s life,” he demanded.

“I swear it,” she whispered, and suddenly nothing seemed to matter.

He kissed her, her mouth, her neck, her shoulders. She moaned.

“I have to go,” she breathed, but he couldn’t let her.

“He’ll sleep,” he vowed, and dropped his forehead against hers, feeling the agony of their impending separation like a hot iron against his soul. “Stay. Just a minute.”

“I can’t.”

“But you want to?”

“More than anything,” she said, and they were the sweetest words he had yet heard. So sweet that he couldn’t help but kiss her one more time. Slowly now, reverently. And then it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to cup her breasts. He felt her sigh in the very depths of his being and slipped his thumbs over her nipples.

“Wicklow,” she gasped, and he smiled as he tugged up her gown.

“Perhaps you could call me by my name just this once,” he said, and kissed her nipple through the fabric.

She jerked as if burned. “Holy hell, when you do that I don’t even
remember
your name.”

“Sean,” he said.

“Oh…” She exhaled heavily. Her fingers had become tangled in his hair. “That’s right.”

“What’s yours?” he asked, and kissed the underside of her jaw.

“Who cares?” she rasped, and suddenly she was
tearing at his belt. He tried to keep his head, to hold his line of questioning, but there was no hope. In an instant his breeches were open, his erection straining toward her.

She swore like a mule driver when she saw it. He pushed her up against the wall, and though he would never be certain how it happened, she was suddenly wrapped around him, her legs strong and supple, her heels digging into the small of his back. One breast was bare, and his cock was flirting with heaven.

He scrabbled for thought. It was slippery but important. He was sure of it. “Are you who you say you—”

“Shut up!” she hissed, and rounding down to meet his lips, she kissed him.

There was a moment of indecision, a moment of fumbling, and then he was inside.

Heavenly saints, it was utopia. He eased into her heat, trying to savor the moment, but she was already arching against him, sliding around him, squeezing him. He grappled with her weight, holding her up. She ripped his shirt open, balanced on the sinewy strength of her legs alone and sucked his nipple into her mouth.

Fire exploded in his chest and raced toward his cock. He growled, she hissed. He moaned, she swore. They grabbed greedily for satisfaction, then stiffened in unison moments before she dropped her head against his shoulder.

Sean straightened slowly, legs trembling as he carried her to his bed. Setting her carefully on the mattress, he eased down beside her. She scooted over weakly, gown rucked about her thighs, breath coming hard. He followed as best he could, barely able to move, entirely unwilling to think about anything but how she had looked as she found ecstasy. Her head thrown back, her face alight.

“You’re beauty beyond words.” His voice was raspy, his strength almost too depleted to reach out and touch her cheek.

Her eyes were closed. She turned her face to kiss his fingers. “I have to go.”

He pushed the hair behind her neatly scrolled ear. “Tell me your true name.”

“Clar—” she began, but he put a finger on her lips.

“I know you lie.”

Her sapphire eyes were haunted when she opened them, her mouth tremulous, but she shook her head. “No, you don’t.”

Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he no longer knew anything but what he wanted to believe. What his body
insisted
he believe.

“I must return to him.”

His stomach clenched. “Tell me one thing…one truth…” They were face-to-face, inches apart, breathing the same air. “One truth and I’ll let you leave.”

She scowled, no less beautiful for the harsh expression. “If he finds me here—”

“You’re not who you say you are.”

“I never meant to hurt you. Never wanted to disappoint you.”

“You’re not married.” He felt desperate. Frantic. “You weren’t a courtesan.”

“I can’t change the past. I can’t make this right.”

“Then what of the blood?” Anger and frustration bubbled inside him like a boiling toxin.

She shrugged. The movement was stiff. “Some women bleed each time.”

Was that the truth? He had no way of knowing.

“I’m one of those.”

“Then how many men have there been?” He knew he was a fool to ask, to torment himself. Better by far to live with the fantasy he had created, but he couldn’t help himself. Apparently he was a selfish man. Maybe even a jealous man.

“Do you really wish to speak of this, Wicklow?” she asked, and turned toward the door.

“Yes, I do.” He stood. “I would know something of the woman who has stolen—” He winced at the words he’d almost spoken. At the words he thought he’d never say. “I would know something of you.”

She stopped, expression twisted. “We can’t—” she began, but he reached her before she could finish the sentence.

“I’m not asking for eternity,” he said, and found that it was difficult to push even those paltry words from his mouth. “Just a moment of truth between us. Am I just one of many?”

“No,” she said, and reached up to touch his face. Her movements were slow, almost as if she meant to resist. “There’s no one like you.”

“Even Alastar?” The burning words came unbidden.

She scowled, drawing away. “I know no one—”

“Alastar Buckingham. Surely you remember him if you’re who you say you are. You planned to marry him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He was going to be a barrister. Sit in the House of Commons. Until he met you. Until you promised him everything and gave him nothing.”

“How would you know that?”

“I know because I sought Tilmont—” He stopped abruptly.

Her face had gone pale. “You
did
meet him before.”

He shook his head, though he wasn’t sure why.

“You met him on purpose,” she said. “To get to Clarette.”

“I…” A thousand regrets were tumbling in on him, but he reminded himself that she was the one at fault.
She
was the one to blame. “Alastar loved you.”

“And so you planned revenge on a woman you had never met.”

He winced. It sounded wrong when she said it like that, but he rallied. “He’s my only brother. He planned a family with you. A life. ’Twas the first time I heard my father laugh since my mother’s—”

“Does Tilmont know?”

“Tilmont!” Rage, rare and bright, seared him. He pulled her close. “You still worry about
him
?”

She jerked away. “Even though it may not be a conventional marriage, it’s still a marriage, and…” Her voice trailed away. “No.” She shook her head, eyes steady on his. “Tell me it’s not true.”

“Listen, lass—” he said, and reached for her again, but she stepped back a quick pace.

“Tell me he didn’t pay you to seduce me.”

Sean shook his head, but somehow she had divined the awful, convoluted truth.

“His father promised the baron’s inheritance in exchange for faithfulness. In exchange for an heir.” Her tone was flat, steady, and sure. “But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

“Listen, I’m not the villain here. You—”

“You seduced me for money!” Her voice had risen sharply.

“I never intended to take his money. I planned—” he began, but her eyes had gone incredibly wide in the paleness of her heart-shaped face.

“So it’s all true.” She turned away in a trance, but
he grabbed her arm, guilt mixing angrily with rage in his gut.

“No!” he said. “It’s not all true. Hell…” He laughed. The sound echoed maniacally in the room. “You’ve got me so tied in knots I can’t tell truth from lies.”

“Well, let me help you out a bit, then, Irishman,” she growled, leaning in. “You slept with me for coin.”

“And what did you do?” he snarled, self-loathing boiling like tar. “Either you’re who you say you are and cuckolded your husband while he sleeps next door. Or you were copping me while lying to me face.”

She tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip.

“Let me go.”

“Which is it? Adulteress or—” But in that instant, she snapped her knee up. It contacted his groin with the ferocity of a mad bull. He stumbled back, gasping for breath, his face twitching madly. But he managed to glance up.

“At least I wasn’t doing it for money,” she said, her voice dripping with acid. She turned away, and the funny thing was…the really hilarious bit was that he tried to apologize just before he collapsed onto the floor.

S
avaana opened the door to her room as quietly as possible. A slew of inventive lies trembled on her lips. But Tilmont never opened his eyes. He remained slumped in the chair, a handsome man dreaming the saturated dreams of the inebriated.

It took her less than a minute to blow out the lantern, remove the soiled sheet, and shove it under the bed. Only a moment to smooth the blankets over the mattress. Removing the necklace from its hiding place in the sleeve of her gown, she slipped it over her head, letting it fall beneath her night rail.

“Clarette?”

She jumped, heart hammering in her chest. For a moment she almost fled the room. But Clarette’s future depended on this moment. And perhaps her own life was intrinsically tied to the baroness’s. “Yes?”

“I fear I’m not feeling quite up to snuff.”

That was hardly a surprise. He had probably drunk his weight in gin before they plied him with a couple more
bottles. Guilt seeped through her. She glanced hopelessly toward the door, but Gallagher had remained where he was, possibly still crumpled on the floor. She stifled a wince. “Perhaps you should lie down, my lord.”

“I don’t think I can…I may be about to bowke, I’m—” he began, and gagged. “Fetch the
po
.”

She wasn’t familiar with the terminology of the
ton
, but there was a certain urgency to his tone that couldn’t be questioned. Skittering across the room, she rounded the bedpost, grabbed the chamber pot, and hurried back to shove the porcelain vessel beneath his face. His stomach rejected its contents in a series of volcanic eruptions. She made a face and backed away until finally he set the pot on the floor and sagged to an upright position.

“My thanks.” His voice was weak, as if he might expire at any moment.

“Are you well?” she asked.

“Certainly.” He waved a dismissive hand at her. It was blue-veined and frail, reminding her a bit of her grandfather’s. “I just…My apologies.”

“It’s quite all right,” she said, and easing toward the chamber pot, retrieved it from the floor. “I’ll just be rid of this, then.”

“You’re an angel.” His voice was watery.

“Not exactly,” she said, and opened the door.

“Clarette?” He glanced up, eyes reddened as she swiveled back toward him.

“Yes?”

“You’ll be back, won’t you?”

She refrained from glancing down the hall, from closing her eyes, from begging his forgiveness. “Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

After setting the chamber pot outside the back door of the inn, she ascended the stairs again. Stepping cautiously inside her rented room, she desperately hoped that Tilmont would be sleeping, but he was not. Instead, he was lying on his side, clothes rumpled. He opened his eyes as she moved into the chamber.

“Thank you,” he said again.

She nodded, and refrained, just barely, from wringing her hands. “I’ll leave you to sleep,” she said, but his expression was haggard, his eyes cheerless.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t wish to disturb you,” she said, and that might well have been the truest words she’d spoken in weeks. “I’ll sleep with Mrs. Edwards.”

His mouth quirked up a little. “I didn’t mean to chase you from your room.”

“It’s no trouble,” she said, and wondered vaguely what Clarette thought of him. He seemed a decent fellow except for his penchant for alcohol. But who in the lauded
bon ton
was not a sop?

“Would it be troublesome to stay and talk with me for a bit?” he asked.

She kept her hands still, her gaze steady, though she wanted nothing more than to leave. “No. Certainly not,” she said, and sat carefully in the chair he’d recently vacated. “Are you feeling much improved?”

He smiled. The expression was weak. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”

“You’d have to put more effort into the lie,” she said, and he laughed.

“The blue ruin…” He looked philosophical. “’Tis not a friend of mine.”

“At least you realize as much.”

“For all the good it does me. Did you know I have a bad heart?”

She shook her head.

“Father doesn’t like to have it known. A weakness, you know. One of many.”

She wanted to ask what his others were. “I’m sorry.”

“The truth is…” His face was very somber, earnest and pale in the near darkness as he watched her. “It’s unlikely I’ll be able to sire children.”

“Oh. Oh!” she said, realizing the enormity of that truth. Clarette would be paid only if she had a child, but if she did, Tilmont would suspect it wasn’t his.

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, it’s not…not your fault,” she said.

He watched her. “I know of the deal you made with Father.”

“I don’t—” She stopped, sick to death of the lies, but she had made a vow to Clarette, one of the few people to whom she owed true allegiance. Or not. She raised her chin, remembering the other’s mannerisms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve barely met your esteemed sire.”

He smiled a little, looking like a lost, disheveled child. “You will gain a fortune if you are faithful and produce an heir.”

“I—” She was tired. Too exhausted to parry. “And what of you, my lord? Do you not want a child?”

He smiled again, but in a moment it was lost in sorrow. “I sent the Irishman.”

She almost winced. “What?”

“Gallagher. I sent him to seduce you. So that I might keep my fortune to myself.”

So she’d been correct, she thought, and wished she could feel good about that, but the truth soured her stomach, and she found she had no idea how a woman should act in such a situation. “How could you?” she asked, and he shrugged.

“I thought you might enjoy him.”

She scowled, far out of her depth. “Does holy matrimony mean nothing to you?”

“I owe you an apology.”

At the very least. “I should say you do.”

“And my thanks, I guess, for being honorable.”

She was in hell. “Just because I was a…a courtesan ’tis not in my nature to betray a trust.”

“That’s what
he
said.”

“What?”

“Gallagher. ’Tis what he said.” Tilmont smiled again, but the expression was wobbly. “Well, not exactly. It was code of sorts. Quite clever if I do say. Perhaps you didn’t even notice. The Irishman indicated he had performed no tasks for you other than as a driver.”

She opened her eyes wide, as if surprised, and secretly wished she had kicked him harder. “Is that what he meant?”

“Quite so.” He looked sick and weary.

She shook her head. “But how did you meet him?”

“Gambling. Rolf introduced us. We were in the same game of piquet. The Irishman is a fair hand at games. I thought he had me, but in the end I beat him out. He owed me a good bit of coin.”

“So you traded his debt for my honor.”

His face contorted with guilt. “Truth to tell, I didn’t know you had any to barter.”

“Because I was a courtesan?”

“Because I have so little myself, perhaps, that I didn’t expect to find it in you.” He winced. The truth looked to be a bitter pill. “Gallagher seemed a decent fellow, and someone interested in you from the outset.”

Anger spurred up in her again, but she played the
game. “How do you mean? He knew nothing of me.”

“Introductions were made. I told him I was newly married. He said you must be rather hideous if I was willing to leave you alone so early in our union. So I produced the cameo Father commissioned of you. You were quite lovely that day, remember? In your yellow frock?”

He lay perfectly still, but his gaze never left her face. Why?

“Yes, of course,” she said.

He smiled a little. “Mr. Gallagher agreed that you were—”

“Was it his idea or yours?”

“What?”

“To seduce me. His or yours?”

“I’m sorry to say it was mine. He merely wished to meet you.”

“And you didn’t wonder why he would wish to meet another man’s wife?” Anger spewed through her again. Apparently there was enough to douse both men. “I doubt you told him how sweet-natured I was.”

He actually seemed to blush. “Well, no. But that was before I saw this portion of you. In the past you have seemed rather…” He paused, grinned crookedly, as if to say he was none to throw stones. “…harsh.”

Against her will, Savaana remembered Clarette’s sharp tongue. And though she’d been offended by it herself, she
found now that she had an inexplicable need to defend the other woman. “I’ve had a difficult childhood.”

“Did you? You never mentioned.”

“I don’t care to talk about it.”

“Perhaps it would be good for you to do so. Cathartic.”

She shook her head.

“I’m an excellent listener,” he said, and patted the bed beside him.

He must be joking, she thought; she’d heard better lines from the Irishman himself. But Tilmont’s face was absolutely solemn.

“Unfortunately, I am not much good for anything else.”

“I’m certain that’s not—”

“Except for with you that once…” He gave her a meaningful glance. Unfortunately, the meaning was lost on her. “…I’ve not lain with a woman for most of two years.”

She opened her mouth to speak but had nothing to say. Yesterday she could have sworn she hadn’t copulated in all of her twenty odd years. Now all she had was about seventeen minutes.

“Well, I’ve
lain
with several, but…” He sighed. “I lied when I said I didn’t find you attractive. There’s simply nothing I can do about it. Most times, at least. My apologies.”

“Well that’s…that’s all right,” she said.

“So there would be no harm in you lying beside me.”

She eyed him askance and he laughed.

“I promise to neither vomit nor take advantage.”

“I don’t—”

“And you’ll be afforded more of the bed than you would with Mrs. Edwards. I’ve seen her on more than one occasion. You might well be crushed.”

She glanced toward the door. The truth was, she didn’t relish the idea of bumbling about in the dead of night. She couldn’t forget the men in the alley. What had happened there? In truth, she had no way of knowing whether the Irishman had been instrumental in the attack. He said he had sought Clarette out of revenge. Perhaps that was true. Who was to say that revenge didn’t include theft or worse?

“I but wish to speak to someone while I fall asleep,” the baron assured her.

“Very well,” she said finally, and eased onto the mattress.

He scooted over a little. She turned on her side to face him.

“You are a rare beauty,” he said. “I’ll say that much for my father.”

Tucking her left hand under her cheek, she watched him in the pale moonlight. “How do you mean?”

“You were his choice, of course. He said that perhaps since you were a…” He paused, glancing at her
apologetically. “…a courtesan…you wouldn’t mind even sleeping with
me.
”

She watched him thoughtfully. “I don’t think I care for your father.”

He smiled. “That may be the nicest thing any woman has ever said to me. But here now, we’re supposed to be speaking of you. What of your family?”

She thought of her grandfather who was not her grandfather. Her sister who might be nothing more than a figment of her desperate imagination.

“What of your mother?” he prompted. “Was she as lovely as you?”

“She had ginger hair.” The words came unbidden, blown like an errant breeze into her thoughts.

“Do you, too?” he asked, but his eyes had fallen closed.

“What?”

“Red hair,” he murmured. “Shortly after we wed I found the remains of a walnut and indigo pigment in a basin at Father’s house.”

“Walnut and indigo? How did you identify—”

“Ever since, I have wondered about your true color.” He sighed heavily, so near sleep. “It seems a pity. I rather favor chestnut hues. They’re quite unusual.”

“She dyed her hair?” The words were little more than a thought, not breaking into his consciousness.

He was silent for a moment, lost in sleep, but in a bit
he awoke again. “What of your father? Or siblings?” he asked, voice blurry with gin and sleep. “Do you have other family? A dashing brother, perhaps, or a comely…” His words trailed off. His mouth went lax.

“Yes.” She whispered the word into the night, certain for the first time. “I have a sister.”