Seducing the Single Lady

Of all the single ladies in Almack’s Assembly rooms that evening, none had more vexing or confounding prospects than Miss Susannah Grey.

“By rights you ought to be a spinster and yet you are the belle of the ball,” her dear friend, the dand
ified Lord Stanford declared, at once insulting and complimenting her. Susannah decided to ignore it.

“Funny how a fortune makes everyone forget that I have
reached the advanced age of five and twenty,” Susannah replied. “I ought to be languishing in the dowager corner. And yet…”

Susannah fluttered
her eyelashes at one of her suitors as she and Lord Stanford strolled past.

“And yet it is the opposite. You are the most fashionable, for one thing,” Stanford said, with an appreciative glance at her blue silk gown, her perfectly tamed auburn curls and diamond earbobs.  

“After years of deliberately dressi
ng wretchedly to repel my loathsome fiancé, I confess I am quite delighted with all my lovely silk and satin frocks,” Susannah replied, smoothing her gloved hands over the luxurious fabric of her dress.

“Why do I fear you might spend your inheritance upon dresses, jewels and other fripperies?”

“Because I just might,” Susannah said with a wicked smile. “After all those years of being neglected by my greedy relatives, who spent much of my inheritance on their own wants, I am quite happy to spend it on myself. And to revel in this,” Susannah said, sweeping her arm to indicate the crush in the Almack’s ballroom and all the suitors vying for her attentions.

“How does it feel to finally be a prize upon the marriage mart?” Stanford asked. “Such a rare thing to be such a sensation.”

“In truth, I am flummoxed. I imagined it, of course. Isn’t it such a pity that I never had a season? There was no point, given that I had been betrothed from the cradle. I just never believed this would actually happen.”

“All it took was
one tragic, mysterious death,” Stanford pointed out gravely.

“Rather sad, isn’t it?
” Susannah said mournfully. She heaved a heartfelt sigh. “Damien plagued me ever since we were children in the nursery and I abhorred the prospect of marriage to him. While I am relieved to have my freedom, I am sorry for his untimely demise.”

Susannah hadn’t wept when she’d learned that Damien had been stupidly killed
in a skirmish in some far-flung corner of the continent, though she had been melancholy for the day as she dwelt upon memories of him.

Damien, tugging her braid at every opportunity in spite of her cries and protestations. His mocking r
efusals to join her tea parties, save for the one time he attended as “Lord Destructo” and broke her fine play china set and spilled tea all over her fanciest dress.

He had called her
ham
because when he was shown his infant bride-to-be, he declared she looked just like a Christmas ham.

Their fathers—best of friends and in possession of neighboring estates—
had decided to arrange for the betrothal of their children, thinking it would be the perfect match. Their estates would be joined, succession assured, and Susannah’s wealth protected from fortune hunters. The contracts were drawn up while Susannah was still in the nursery. Then everyone watched with despair as the children showed absolutely no affection for each other.

During Damien’s eighteenth year, he was overheard declaring to the wretched Lord Dudley that he was
fleeing the country to avoid marriage to “the scrappy brat whom he was forced to marry.”

Susannah
had read about it in the papers, as did the rest of England, who now possessed the following information about her: Men would flee to other continents rather than marry her, even in spite of the enormous fortune she would one day inherit.

There was no denying the truth of it when
the late Viscount Bedford had dragged his son ‘round to apologize. It was a horribly awkward encounter of red faces and choked words, washed down with tepid tea.

Damien had done nothing but torment
and mock her, and then leave.

Good riddance
, Susannah thought. That is, before her parents passed away, leaving her under the guardianship of her uncle, then his wife and then her succession of terrible husbands.  With only the prospect of the fortune she would inherit upon her twenty-sixth birthday, Susannah languished for years.

Once and only once she had even dared to write to him suggesting he might return and marry her…after all, no one could be worse than her guardian, Uncle Collins, her aunt’s second husband whose hands had a tendency to wander inappropriately. She was tired of swatting his grasp away at the dinner table and pushing her desk in front of the door each night.

But Damien hadn’t appeared upon her doorstep after she had swallowed her pride and begged for his help, forever hardening her heart to him. She could have, perhaps, in a charitable moment, dismissed this much of his behavior as childish antics. But she could not forgive him for failing to come to her aid as a gentleman, if not her betrothed.

Even though they despised each other, no effort was made to dissolve the contract. Damien had no intention of marrying anyone, ever. Their fathers held out hope...only to pass on before a marriage c
ould occur. Susannah's guardians were more than happy to be spared the expense and bother of finding her a husband who would claim her fortune as his own. It effectively warded off any suitors for her...until Damien died and she had come of age and claimed control of her fortune.

“You are the catch of the season, Susannah,” Stanford gushed. “You could have anyone you wanted.”

“You make me sound like a fish, Stanford.”

“N
o one could make that mistake. Will you take a husband now that you are at liberty to do so?”

“Doubtful. However,” she said, snapping her fan open to cover her lips and lowering her voice. “I may take a lover.”

“Susannah!”

“I know, it’s terribly wicked of me. But why hand over control of my fortune and my person when I have only just secured it myself? I need no permission to do wh
at I please. No husband for me!  However, I think I shall simply enjoy being courted and I shall enjoy the rare, privileged position of being an heiress with no one to answer to. Finally.”

A mob of suitors swarmed. Laughing, Susannah accepted Lord Sommerly’s invitation to dance.
Taking her hand, he led her out to the floor where the other couples were in the midst of a lively dance. With her hands in the air, turning this way and that, hips moving to the music under her long satin skirts, Susannah felt her cheeks flush pink with pleasure. She loved dancing. She loved being the center of attention. She loved all of her beaux. After years shut away, in dowdy dresses, at the mercy of greedy relatives, she delighted in her freedom to laugh, love, be romanced…

That is, until a sudden commotion diverted her attention.

That is, until it was revealed that she wasn’t so free after all. 

******

Despite all reports to the contrary, Damien Rhys Redmayne, now Viscount Bedford, was not dead. In fact, he was very much among the living. After nine years abroad—nine years of days and nights of debauchery—he had returned.

His father had died thinking his son was a disgrace. There
was nothing Damien could do but reform and live his remaining days in a manner befitting a gentleman. He could be a man his father would be proud of.

Finally, he would be the son his father always wanted to have.

Starting with the fiancé he’d left behind.

After quietly returning to town, catching up on all the news, refurbishing his wardrobe and generally preparing himself and his affairs for his grand return to society—and return from the dead—Damien sought his fiancé.

He was informed that she could be found at Almack’s.

To Almack’s he went.

Damien scanned the crowd, particularly focusing upon the wallflowers and other dowdy girls lurking in the darkened corners. When he’d left, Susannah had been plain and generally unkempt—not the sort of dazzling beauty that an idiot boy of eighteen was remotely interested in flirting with, let alone marrying.

Damien’s attention was drawn away fr
om the wallflowers to an auburn-haired beauty in blue silk dancing happily with some dandy.

“Who is that?” he asked his longtime friend, Lord Watson, who’d warmly welcomed Damien back to town and was serving as his guide as he reentered society. Watson’s mouth quirked almost into a smile, before settling into a firm line.

“Why do you ask? I thought we were here for one particular woman. One woman only.” There was a note of warning in Watson’s tone.
Do not lose your resolve. Be Good
.

“Yes, you’re right. I was just curious,” Damien hastened to reply. He was here for the girl he’d once likened to a Christmas ham. Granted, she’d been a wee infant
at the time and he been a young boy. But he was here for her, and only her.

“So will you propose immediately?” Watson inquired. “Or do you think you will woo her?”

“I suppose the proposal could wait until tomorrow,” Damien conceded. “After all, it’s been some time since we’ve last seen each other. Nine years, in fact. I imagine she is probably desperate for my return. So wooing her won’t really be necessary.”

Not that she’d been all too keen on him when they were children…but surely she was eager for a husband and children of her own. He’d provide them. She’d be grateful. They’d live pleasantly ever after.

Meanwhile, Watson seemed to be choking on something.

“Are you certain you will recognize her afte
r all that time?” Watson asked, recovering.

“Of course;
I grew up with her. I’ll just look for the…” Damien’s voice trailed off as he bit back the words
scrappy brat
. “I’ll look for a plain woman concerned with more important things than feminine fripperies.”

“You sound very confident,” Watson remarked.
“A plain woman. Desperate for your return. Eager to marry you.”

“We have been betrothed since birth. It is time we made it official.”

“How romantic,” Watson said dryly.

“Romance is irrelevant. It’s high time I assume the responsibilities of a Bedford. Starting with marriage to my betrothed.”

“So you’ll be married within the week?”

“If all goes according to plan, yes. And I can’t imagine why it wouldn’t. Why wait any longer?”

“Would you care to wager on that?” Watson inquired.

It was a tempting offer, even though Damien had sworn never to wager again. But it was a noble wager, so perhaps it was alright. He could take the winnings and buy a gift for his bride.

“I’m fond of such easily earned money,” Damien replied. “Shall we say fifty pounds?”

Watson muttered something that sounded like “we probably shouldn’t.” But that was followed up with “Oh, what the hell? You have a deal, Bedford.”