Read Taste of Temptation Online
Authors: Cheryl Holt
Tags: #Romance - Historical, #American Light Romantic Fiction, #General, #Romance, #Fiction, #Fiction - Romance, #Love stories, #Romance: Historical, #Historical, #American Historical Fiction, #Regency novels, #Regency fiction
Taste of Temptation (2 page)
“I don’t have any money to pay you for it”
She tried to give it back, but he wouldn’t take it.
“For you, it is free. When you are happily wed—as I promise you soon will be—you will come and reimburse me.”
“You’re mad,” she protested.
“Not mad,” he responded. “I know of what I speak. Just you wait and see.”
Chapter 1
LONDON, AUGUST 1814 ...
“MICHAEL! What are you doing?”
Captain Tristan Odell glared down the hall at his younger half brother, Michael Seymour.
“Tristan,” Michael casually replied, “I didn’t realize you were home.”
“Obviously: ”
Michael—the recently installed Earl of Hastings—had his arms wrapped around a very fetching housemaid, his lean, lanky torso pressing her against the wall. Not that she appeared to mind.
She was buxom and plump, her abundant breasts scarcely constrained by corset and gown, and thus, the exact sort of female Michael relished.
A love bite was plainly visible on the girl’s neck, so mischief had been brewing. If Tristan hadn’t walked by, Michael would have lured her into an empty parlor, would have had her skirt thrown up and her drawers tugged down in a fast attempt to lose his virginity.
It was hell, trying to keep the eighteen-year-old boy in line. With his golden blond hair and big blue eyes, his broad shoulders and six-foot frame, he could have been an angel painted on a church ceiling. Women took one look at him and promptly forgot every lesson they’d ever been taught about decency and decorum.
“What’s your name, lass?” Tristan asked the maid.
“Lydia, Captain Odell.”
“Be about your duties, Lydia, and I don’t want you to sneak off with the earl ever again.”
She glanced at Michael, expecting him to counter the edict, but Michael merely grinned, a shameless, unrepentant rogue.
“Yes, Captain Odell,” she sullenly mumbled.
“I don’t care what he promises you,” Tristan warned. “I don’t care if he offers you money or plies you with gifts. You are to refuse. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If he pesters you, and you can’t dissuade him, come to me at once.”
“I will.”
“For if I stumble on another tryst, you’ll be fired immediately. I won’t give you a chance to explain. You’ll simply be turned out without a reference.”
The threat of termination got her attention. She curtsied and left, but she was mutinous, and Tristan knew it was only a matter of time before she’d be searching for other employment.
“You!” Tristan pointed an admonishing finger at Michael. “In the library!”
Tristan spun and marched off, as Michael complained, “You’re such a scold. You never let me have any fun.”
“This isn’t my fault”
“The way you carry on, one would think you were my mother.”
“Don’t bring your poor mother into it. If she hadn’t died when you were little, she wouldn’t last long, watching you now. Your antics would be the death of her.”
“My mother would have loved me,” Michael confidently claimed. “She would have thought I was marvelous. All women do.”
Tristan rolled his eyes and plopped down into his chair behind the massive oak desk. Though Michael was the earl, he slouched—like the recalcitrant adolescent he was—into the chair across from Tristan.
The prior earl, their philandering father, Charles Seymour, had passed away six months earlier, orphaning Michael and his twelve-year-old sister, Rose.
There were several relatives who could have stepped in as guardian for the two children, but for reasons Tristan couldn’t fathom, Charles had chosen him.
Tristan was Charles’s oldest, but illegitimate son, the product of an illicit romance between Charles and Tristan’s Scottish mother, Meg. Charles had owned a hunting lodge near Tristan’s village and had visited every autumn. As a wealthy, urbane aristocrat, Charles had possessed the same charisma as Michael, and pretty, foolish Meg hadn’t stood a chance.
She’d died when Tristan was a baby, so she’d been unavailable to insist on continuing contact with his father. As a result, Tristan had only seen Charles a few times, and he’d been given scant fiscal support.
Tristan had made his own way in the world, had embraced his love of sailing and the sea. He owned a small shipping company and sailed as captain of his own merchant vessel. He was never happier than when he was out on the water and flying over the waves, so it had come as an enormous surprise to learn that he’d been roped in by Charles, cast as mentor and protector to his half siblings whom he’d never met.
At age thirty, Tristan had never been married and had no children of his own, so he knew nothing about parenting. He was floundering like a blind man, groping about in the dark.
Yet he wasn’t eager to be compared to his negligent father, so he took his responsibilities seriously. When he’d received the letter advising him of his guardianship of Michael and Rose, he’d grudgingly traveled to London to assume his duties.
Michael and Rose weren’t overly distraught at Charles’s demise. Nor did they seem to miss him. Apparently Charles had been as absent in their lives as he’d been in Tristan’s. They viewed his passing as one might that of a distant family friend.
“Well”—Tristan struggled to look fatherly—“what have you to say for yourself?”
“She’s very fetching? She’s loose with her favors? You’re a stick in the mud?”
Tristan snorted with disgust. “You’re hopeless. I have no idea why I lecture you.”
“Neither do I. It’s a waste of breath.”
“It certainly is, but you must heed me: You don’t want to gain a reputation as a fellow who tumbles his servants. Those kinds of men are regarded as swine.”
“I don’t feel like
swine
. I feel randy as the dickens.”
swine
. I feel randy as the dickens.”
“You have an obligation to your employees. You can’t frivolously ruin them—even if they beg you to.”
Tristan glowered, stupidly expecting to elicit some evidence of remorse, or at least a hint that Michael recognized his behavior to be rash and wrong. He was a peer of the realm, so he should set an example, but as Tristan had quickly learned, Michael acted however he pleased.
He’d been raised by nannies and governesses—pushovers all—who’d been dazzled by his delightful smile and charming manners. With his being eighteen and horridly spoiled, there wasn’t much Tristan could do but peck like a hen while keeping a tight rein on Michael’s fortune, a staggering array of money and property that he wouldn’t completely control until the age of twenty-five.
“I’ve enlightened you as to women”—Tristan’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment—“and the urges we men suffer because of them. You have to be cautious.”
“It was just a kiss,” Michael contended.
“Kissing can swiftly lead to more, and trust me, a lowborn female like Lydia is a mercenary. If you impregnated her, you’d end up supporting her for the rest of your life.”
Bored with the topic, Michael yawned. “Quit nagging. I like you, Tristan, but honestly, you can be positively tedious.”
Michael flashed an imperious glare, filled with youthful disdain. Tristan had sailed around the globe, had whored and debauched in cities from Bombay to Shanghai, so he was in no position to chastise, but he felt compelled to guide Michael in his carnal conduct.
Michael was an earl. There were standards to be maintained, as their father had pointed out in a letter he’d written to Tristan on his deathbed.
Watch over Michael and Rose, Charles had penned. Be kind to Rose. Dote on her as I never did. Be stern with Michael. Teach him the lessons I never bothered to impart....
The words were powerfully binding. Tristan was desperate to do right by Michael and Rose, desperate to make his father proud—a situation to which he’d never aspired when the man had been alive.
“I’ve explained the mechanics of sexual activity,” Tristan reminded Michael, “and I hope you’ve paid attention.”
“Oh, yes”—Michael grinned wickedly—“and I can’t understand why you’re working so hard to prevent me from practicing what you described. It can’t be healthy to be so physically frustrated.”
“You have to wait till you’re married.”
Tristan nearly choked. Had that sentence come from his own mouth?
“Ha! I don’t know why you’re so determined to keep me in the dark.”
“It’s not the
dark
I’m worried about; it’s the baby that arrives nine months later.”
dark
I’m worried about; it’s the baby that arrives nine months later.”
At all costs, Tristan would thwart Michael from siring any bastard children. Being a bastard himself, it was a sore subject for Tristan, but he couldn’t get Michael to grasp why it mattered.
“I wish you’d take me to a brothel,” Michael blurted out.
“A brothel?”
“Yes. If I could dabble with whores occasionally, I’d be—”
Tristan was saved from the conversation by a knock on the door. Michael’s cousin, Maud Seymour, poked her nose in. She was a few years older than Tristan, a fussy, unremarkable widow with mousy brown hair and unmemorable gray eyes.
For more than a decade, she’d resided in the mansion, with her daughter, Miriam, who was now sixteen-years-old. She’d served as the earl’s hostess, as well as a detached mother-figure for Michael and Rose.
She was the ultimate hanger-on, the dreaded poor relative who’d come for a visit, ingratiated herself, and never left.
She was used to running the household, having had no supervision from Tristan’s father over the accounts or servants, and she’d been furious over Tristan’s barging in and seizing control. Tristan tried to be cordial, anxious to build a rapport rather than fight over territory.
He didn’t care about the house or servants. He cared about Michael and Rose and ensuring that their futures and fortunes were secure.
“Yes, Maud, what is it?” he asked.
“An applicant is here to interview for the position of Rose’s governess. A Miss Helen Hamilton.”
Tristan bit down a curse. He’d forgotten about the interview. Rose had been without a governess for almost two years, and while she insisted she didn’t need one, Tristan insisted she did.
He’d immersed himself in the search, but he couldn’t find the exact person he wanted.
Rose was a lonely, sweet girl, and so far, the candidates had seemed too old or too grumpy or too lazy to be allowed to watch over her. Maud claimed he was finicky, and he probably was, but he had to keep stopping himself from asking why, when she’d been in charge for so long, the post had remained unfilled.
Finances weren’t a problem, and Tristan suspected that Maud didn’t like Rose enough to trouble herself with hiring someone.
“You don’t have to bother with it,” Maud told him. “I’m happy to talk to her for you.”
“I don’t mind meeting with her,” he stated. “It’s my duty to Rose.”
“You’re so conscientious,” Maud simpered, flattering him. She was practically batting her lashes. “It’s so refreshing to have a man about the place who enjoys being in command.”
“What am I, Cousin Maud?” Michael inquired. “I’m a man.”
“You,” Tristan needled, “are an arrogant boy who’s barely out of short pants.”
“You think I’m a boy,” Michael retorted, “but if you gave me half a chance with the ladies, I’d show you that I can—”
“Michael was just leaving.” Tristan cut him off, terrified of what risque comment he might make in Maud’s presence.
“Yes, Maud,” Michael agreed, “I’m leaving. The maids are having tea down in the kitchen. I promised I’d join them.”
“He’s not going to the kitchen to chat with the maids,” Tristan said. “He’s going to his bedchamber to contemplate his many deplorable character traits.”
“I don’t have any deplorable traits,” Michael boasted. “I’m flawlessly wonderful. Ask anyone.”
Tristan rolled his eyes again. “Maud, escort him out, then send the applicant down to speak with me.”
Other books
Death of a Perfect Mother by Robert Barnard
Sultry with a Twist by Macy Beckett
Terminal World by Alastair Reynolds
El Séptimo Secreto by Irving Wallace
The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies) by Terry Brennan
The Swarm by Orson Scott Card
As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust by Alan Bradley
A Templar's Gifts by Kat Black
Speak Through the Wind by Allison Pittman
Heroine: California Dreamin' by Mirca, Elia
