The Seduction (51 page)

"Help her? You must be joking. Help her turn Ashton Park into one of those vulgar New Plymouth mansions?"

"It's Newport, Mother, and I suspect you only find them vulgar because you've never lived in them. If Mr. Van Alden's mansion in London is any indication, they are the most gracious and comfortable houses imaginable."

"There are things more important than comfort, Ashton," she said with haughty scorn. "There are traditions, time-honored ways of doing things."

"Fine. Then you can go to London and help Elizabeth get settled. I suspect she'll need more help with domestic management than Maggie will anyway. After that, you can return here and teach Margaret how to manage an English household."

"I see. And after I have done that and trained her to be a countess and she no longer needs my help, what will I do with my time then?"

"Travel," he said promptly, and winked at her. "I recommend Italy, myself. It's quite romantic, you know. Maybe you'll meet some wealthy gentleman who'll sweep you off your feet, and you'll fall madly in love with him. You might even marry him."

"Really, Trevor, I've never heard anything so ridiculous in my life. Where on earth have you been getting such romantic notions?"

Margaret was still awake. Trevor dismissed his valet and began to undress, staring at the crack of light beneath the closed door that connected his room to Maggie's. He could imagine her sitting up in bed reading a book, clad in one of those flimsy silk nightgowns from her wedding trousseau. Or perhaps she was sitting at her dressing table, brushing her hair.

Those thoughts brought an instant physical response from his starved body, and he pushed aside erotic imaginings with a curse. He didn't want to imagine her. He wanted to see her. He wanted to touch her. He just plain wanted her.

He jerked off his tie, removed his waistcoat, and began unbuttoning his shirt. Maybe he should just go right in there and tell her that from now on, they'd be sleeping together. Hell, she was the one who hadn't wanted separate bedrooms to begin with, and if he could get her in bed, seducing her into lovemaking would be much easier.

He yanked off his shirt and tossed it aside, thinking about that notion, but reluctantly abandoned it. She wasn't ready yet. He knew that, as hard as she tried to pretend, she was not indifferent to him. Their picnic had proven that. He knew that if he had pressed her, he could probably have taken more than just a kiss. But if he had, she would have resented him all the more for it afterward.

He could at least talk to her. He walked over to the door and hesitated a moment, wondering if he should knock. But this was his house, and his wife, and he had every right to walk into her bed chamber any time he chose. He grabbed the handle and opened the door.

She was reading a book, but not in bed. Instead, she was curled up in one of the overstuffed chintz chairs by the window, her hair flowing loose. She looked up as he entered the room, and quickly shut her book. She shoved it into the drawer of the table beside her chair almost furtively, as if she didn't want him to know what she'd been reading.

"I'm glad you're awake," he said. "I wanted to talk with you."

He sat on the edge of her bed. Her robe was open, and he could not help noticing how the pale pink silk of her nightgown could not disguise her generous breasts. In the lamplight, he could clearly see their swelling shape, the darker pink skin of her aureoles, the taut nipples. He didn't want to talk.

She flushed and drew her robe closed.

He looked away and drew a deep breath, trying to remember what he'd intended to say, what vague pretense he'd come up with to be in here, to be with her.

"I wanted you to know that I've arranged for Elizabeth to live in London. She'll be leaving within the week. My mother will accompany her, and help her get settled. My grandmother also wishes to go, since she wants to do some shopping."

"I see."

"And I've spoken with my mother about you. She now understands her role quite clearly. And yours."

"My role is only a temporary one. I still want a divorce."

"I don't."

"Let me go."

"No."

"You can keep the marriage settlement you already received. I won't fight you for it."

"No."

"Why not?" she said in frustration and genuine bewilderment. "If we divorce, you can remarry and still gain an heir for your precious title."

"That's not the point."

"What is the point?" she cried, her frustration dissolving into despair.

"You are my wife, you belong to me, and I won't let you go. I will not relinquish what is mine."

She drew herself up proudly, pulling her delicate robes around her like a shield as she rose to her feet. "I don't
belong
to you, and I will not stay here as your wife. You don't love me, our marriage is a farce, and I will not live as a hypocrite in a loveless union. As soon as my father returns from New York, I will go to London and live with him."

Trevor suddenly rose to his feet, wrapped his arm around her waist, and brought her close, all in one fluid motion that gave her no time to react. He brought his mouth down on hers and kissed her, a hard kiss intended to demonstrate possession.

She was stiff in his hold, but she was not pushing him away. He gentled the kiss, pulling her lower lip into his mouth, tasting her as he slid his hands up and down her rigid spine, using persuasion instead of force. He kissed her and stroked her until she yielded with a tiny sound against his mouth, relaxing in his hold to mold herself against him, a reaction that made him want to explode in response.

In that moment, he would have done anything to have her, promised anything she asked for just to lie down with her and relieve the aching tension. He wondered who had just demonstrated the greater power. With an abrupt move, he let her go and walked away.

"I will not consent to a divorce," he said quietly, turning to look at her from the doorway between their rooms, "so if you want one, you'll have a fight on your hands. Furthermore, you made a promise to me that you would stay long enough to renovate the house, and I expect you to keep your word."

"As faithfully as you have kept yours?" she countered bitterly. "Or have you forgotten that promise in church about love, honor and cherish?"

She was still fighting him. Stubborn, proud, skeptical, and absurdly sentimental. Shades of the Maggie he knew. "If you obey, I will cherish," he said quietly. "If you honor, I will honor.

And as for love . . ." He paused and cast a long, lingering glance over her body. "I'd be happy to stay the night and love you as much as you want."

Hot color flooded her cheeks, but he suspected it was more from anger than embarrassment. "You don't understand anything," she murmured. "You're not talking about love, you're talking about, about mating."

"They are both the same, and it is only romantic women and foolish men who think differently."

"You really believe that, don't you?" She slowly shook her head. "That only proves how ill-suited we are."

"Ill-suited or not, we are married."

"Not forever. I will not stay married to a man who does not love me. I don't care how long it takes, I will divorce you."

"I know you're determined to try, but I give you fair warning, I will do everything I can to change your mind. And I won't play fair."

"You never do," she shot back as he shut the door.

Inside his own room, Trevor thought about their conversation. He had no doubt she meant what she said, but so did he. He would do everything in his power to change her mind.

Two things gave him hope that he could. She'd responded to his kiss like the passionate woman he remembered. And she'd been reading a book, not one of the novels he'd given her, but something even more promising than that. It was a copy of
Debrett's
Correct Form.
She was reading up on titles and proper forms of address.

A slow, satisfied grin spread over his face.

During the two weeks that followed, Trevor waged the seduction of his wife with all the strategy and planning of a military campaign. He stalked her—keeping her in plain sight as he followed her on her morning rides. He forced her into conversation at meals and endured her defensive barbs with unruffled calm. He left her gifts—bribes, she called them—in special places where he knew she would find them. He went to her room every night to talk, using the renovation of the house as his excuse. He did everything he could think of to breach her defenses and force her surrender.

The frightening thing for Margaret was that his campaign was beginning to take its toll. Her resistance was eroding, and she sometimes caught herself actually beginning to believe in him again and imagining that he really did love her. And every time she did, she berated herself for being a fool. She tried to avoid him, but that was impossible. She tried to ignore him, but he would not be ignored. She tried to harden her heart and hate him, but that was futile.

By the time Cornelia and Edward arrived for their visit in May, she was at the end of her rope.

"Honestly, Cornelia, he's making me insane," she said, pacing back and forth across her sitting room. "He won't leave me alone."

Cornelia settled into a chair and removed her traveling gloves and bonnet. "What do you mean?"

"He follows me when I go riding. He leaves these little gifts—lemon verbena cologne and chocolate truffles and romantic novels—all over the house for me to find. Last night, there was an emerald bracelet in my soup plate. He's driving me crazy!"

Cornelia was smiling long before Margaret reached the end of her list of grievances. "Poor Maggie. What an awful husband you've got."

"It's not funny!" she cried. "I know why he's doing this, and it isn't out of any love for me. He wants an heir, for one thing."

"Well, of course he does. Children are the primary purpose of marriage, you know."

"And," Margaret went on as if her cousin hadn't spoken, "he's trying to charm me into stopping divorce proceedings because he's afraid that when I succeed in getting a divorce, I'll take my money with me."

"A divorce!" Cornelia sat up straight in her chair. "You can't be serious."

"I am completely serious."

"Do you realize what you're saying? A divorce is impossible. The scandal alone would ruin you."