The Seduction (2 page)

Trevor already knew that. But he also knew that Lucci was foolishly besotted by his beautiful wife and might miss her enough to return unexpectedly. He shook his head. "It's too risky. I don't wish to die at the hands of your jealous husband."

Her lips curved into a pout. "You would not be willing to die for me?"

Trevor smiled and caressed her cheek. "No, my sweet. I would not."

"Bastard." The word was soft on her lips, an endearment rather than an epithet.

He laughed as she rolled onto her back and held out her arms. "Stay. Even if he did come and he found you here, Lucci would never be able to defeat you in a fight. He's too fat."

"Somehow, that does not ease my mind." Trevor caught her wrists and pulled her arms wide to place a kiss between her breasts. "And I am his most hated rival."

He released her and sat up, then reached above her head for his cravat, which was draped carelessly over the headboard. He gave her a cynical smile. "But then, I suspect the fact that Lucci and I are rivals in business heightens the pleasure for you, doesn't it, my sweet?"

She stretched like a cat and yawned. "Yes," she confessed. "I've wanted you for a long time, Trevor. When I saw you at the opera tonight, I knew this was the perfect opportunity."

Trevor had known it, too. Isabella thought tonight's pleasures had been her idea, but he'd been planning this ever since Lucci had stolen the necklace from him. He had known all along that his prize would end up in her hands. Lucci always gave the jewels to his wife. He really was a fool. That necklace would bring several thousand pounds on the open market. She sighed, watching as he rose from the bed and walked toward her dressing table. "I wish we had more time together. I don't see why you must go to England anyway."

"I don't have a choice. I am an earl now. That carries certain responsibilities."

"Such as?"

He bent slightly at the knees to see his reflection in the mirror and began to tie his cravat. "According to my mother, they include stepping into my late brother's shoes, marrying a well-bred girl from a respectable—and, it is hoped, wealthy—family, and producing an heir."

"You?" She laughed merrily. "Is that why you're going? To chain yourself to a lifetime of fox hunting and playing the country squire? How dreadfully conventional. A man like you isn't made for a life like that. I don't believe it."

Trevor paused in the act of buttoning his waistcoat and thought suddenly of home, of the green fields and rose-covered cottages of Ashton Park, of roast beef and trifle, of chestnut trees and roaring fires and thick feather mattresses—all the things he'd left behind ten years ago. An unexpected pang of longing hit him, and he made a sudden realization.

"Actually," he said and resumed buttoning his waistcoat, "I'm looking forward to it."

"You're not serious!" She sat up in bed and
frowned at him. "Have you fallen in love with some whey-faced English girl on holiday?" she demanded.. "Is that what this is all about?"

He pulled on his jacket and met her gaze in the mirror. "What does love have to do with getting married?"

She laughed and fell back against the pillows. "I see that we are very much alike. I, too, married out of necessity." She paused and gazed at him hungrily. "I will miss you,
mio
caro
.
But when you grow tired of your English wife and your country house and your dismal English rain, perhaps you will return and we will enjoy each other again."

He remembered the necklace and didn't think his return a very likely possibility. Nor did he care. Both of them had gotten what they wanted, and that was the end of it. He started for the door.

"Take good care, Trevor," she called.

"I always do." He paused in the doorway and looked at her. "You should take care as well. Lucci might find out about this little rendezvous of ours."

She seemed unperturbed by that possibility. "If he does, he will be furious, but he'll forgive me, and he'll believe whatever explanations I give him. He always does. He loves me."

"For now."

His skeptical reply and cynical smile shook her complacent vanity for a moment, and she looked at him with uncertainty. "Don't you believe in love?"

Trevor laughed. "After tonight, darling, how can you ask me that?"

"I am talking about the emotion, not the act."

"They are both the same." He saw her frown, her expression one of pique and wounded feminine pride. "What were you expecting? That I would now be as besotted with you as your husband is? Don't pout, my sweet. I know it is not my love you seek, and I am not like Lucci, to be manipulated and made the fool."

He paused then added, "Don't push him too far, Isabella. Even the most ardent husband's passion will fade."

She rose up on her knees, shaking her dark hair back from her shoulders and displaying for him all the charms he was leaving behind. "Will it?"

He studied her exquisite body for a long moment, then said what was expected of him. "No. Perhaps not."

"Do not forget me, Trevor," she whispered.

"Never," he vowed. "I will remember you and treasure this night all the days of my life."

She sank back against the pillows, her scarlet mouth curved in a smile of satisfaction as Trevor walked out the door. But the moment it closed behind him, he promptly forgot her existence.

Italy, 1882

Margaret Van Alden wondered
if it was truly possible to die of boredom. If so, she was certain to drop dead at any moment.

The ladies were having tea, a dreaded occasion in Margaret's opinion, and one to be gotten through as quickly as possible. For over an hour now, they had been discussing the scandals brewing back in London, the dire state of everybody's health, and the weather.

The Duchess of Arbuthnot said, "England is so dreary, I'm told. Lady Morton has written to me that the rain is going to drive her mad." She set her teacup back in its saucer and went on, "We are so fortunate to be in Italy just now. It's lovely this time of year. And the countryside is so beautiful."

Margaret glanced longingly out the window at the bright Mediterranean sunshine and wondered why, if
it was so lovely, they were sitting in this stuffy drawing room. She racked her brain for an excuse, any excuse, to depart. Perhaps she could suddenly be ill. A headache would do. Or perhaps the shrimp sandwiches. One never knew with shrimp.

"The Italian people are so marvelous," Lady Lytton said. "So charming and unspoiled."

"Quite," the duchess agreed. "Although they are somewhat brazen in their manners."

"More tea, ladies?"

Cornelia gestured toward the tea service, and at the voices of assent, the maid began to pour out. Margaret knew that since this was her father's villa and these were her guests, it was her responsibility to be the hostess, but she felt no guilt at allowing her cousin to play that role. Cornelia was so much better at it than she. Margaret took a chocolate biscuit from a plate and nibbled on it as she weighed the cost to her social status of simply making a mad dash for the door. Or perhaps she could faint.

As she speculated on various ways to escape, she could hear the duchess directing the conversation toward Italian art. "You will find the museums of Italy quite splendid. The Italian masters were so gifted."

Margaret wondered how great a stir would ensue if she opened the window and climbed out.

"Take the sculpture of David, for example. You can appreciate the true talent of Michelangelo when you see it. Such exquisite line and form. So beautiful, so natural—"

"So naked," Margaret put in, unable to stop herself.

The shocked gasps of the ladies answered her. She looked around with wide, innocent eyes and plied her fan with ladylike zeal, but had to bite down hard on her lower lip to keep from laughing at their horrified faces. English ladies were so stuffy, Margaret thought with the staunch patriotism of an American. The Duchess of Arbuthnot's haughty nose quivered with disapproval. Lady Lytton veritably swooned, and her two daughters, Lady Sally and Lady Agnes, stared at Margaret, their rosebud mouths gaping. Although she didn't venture a glance at Cornelia, she knew her cousin was probably sinking through the floor.

Margaret couldn't sum up even the tiniest hint of regret for her outrageous comment, but she did feel a twinge of pity for Cornelia. It was, after all, her cousin's responsibility to launch her in European society, but during the past year, she had not been very successful.

The awkward silence was broken by the arrival of Giuseppe. The butler entered the drawing room and announced, "Lord Hymes."

The ladies stirred, making hasty preparations, and Margaret's faux pas was forgotten. Lord Hymes walked in with all the pompous assurance of the British aristocrat. He greeted the married ladies first, as expected, then moved on to Lady Sally and Lady Agnes, then finally to her.

The gaze that met hers was admiring, making it clear she was the one he had really come to see. But the look in his gray eyes was also coolly assessing, as if she were a painting he was thinking of buying. She might just as well be put on the auction block at Sotheby's and sold to the man with the highest title.

"Miss Van Alden." He bent over her hand in the customary gesture and pressed his lips to her fingers. The kiss was not a long one, as Roger Hastings never stepped beyond the bounds of propriety. Margaret found him incredibly dull.

He released her hand and stepped back. Margaret waited until he sat down, accepted a cup of tea, and replied suitably to the duchess's questions about his health before she gave an exaggerated sigh. "Oh," she moaned, and pressed a hand to her forehead.

Everyone in the room looked over at her with worried expressions. All except Cornelia, whose glance was definitely skeptical. "Oh," she said again and wilted slightly in her chair, praying for the question that would enable her to escape.

Lady Lytton provided it. "Margaret, my dear, are you ill?"

She lifted her head and tried to look convincingly sick. "My head," she murmured. "It's aching so dreadfully." She rose and continued in a weak voice, "I'm so sorry, but I fear I really must lie down. Pardon me."

She cast an apologetic glance at the others, then left the drawing room. Once out of their sight, she raced across the tiled foyer and up the stairs. Safely inside her bedroom suite, she shut the door behind her and let out a heartfelt sigh of relief. Thank goodness that was over.

Lord Hymes was probably disappointed at her hasty departure. Maybe he'd take the hint, return to his estates in Durham, or wherever it was he came from, and stop following her about.

Hymes, she knew, wanted to marry her. He had already spoken to her father on the subject, but she had no intention of considering Lord Hymes as a husband. To Hymes, marriage meant landing a rich wife who would get him out of debt.

Well, Margaret certainly met the requirement. Her father had so much money that it made the stodgy old New York
Knickerbocker
set back home ill to contemplate it. No wonder she had suitors standing in line.

Fortune hunters. During the year she'd been in London, there had been dozens of them, all vying for the Van Alden millions, none of them vying for her heart. She despised some of them, pitied others, but she hadn't fallen in love with any of them. And she found it hard to believe that any of them had ever been in love with her. Hymes certainly wasn't.