To Be Seduced (23 page)

He had approached Harold Quinn the previous summer, when the American had rented a house for his wife and daughter in London. Not only did the man run the most successful passenger ships plying the Atlantic, he retained ownership of his grandfather’s fishing fleet. Kieran had approached the magnate in hopes of interesting him in backing the fishermen sailing from the one harbor in Rossburn lands. The old man had listened to his proposal in silence, then dismissed him with a promise of an answer within a week.

Striding down the dimly lit marble stairs, Kieran tightened his jaw at the memory. He had had no choice but to agree to Quinn’s insolence. Ever since the potato blight had spread from Ireland to Scotland in his father’s time, their tenants had struggled to make a living. His father had nearly beggared the family, trying to take care of their people. It had taken years for the two of them to increase income from the private demesne to the point where the lord’s family could live comfortably off of it. Little extra remained to help the tenants.

Despite the social solecism of an aristocrat engaging in trade or industry, he had determined to start some venture to provide employment for his tenants. His family had held their lands since before the Normans had invaded England, and the sense of responsibility for their people ran deep in Rossburn blood.

Even so, he had refused to pay the other man’s price the first time the old man informed him what it was.

“You’re mad.” He had regarded Quinn with revulsion. The other man’s brows beetled. Evidently, the magnate did not hear many blunt assessments of his character.

“Mad or not, boy, that’s the offer. You want my help, you take my daughter.” Sitting back behind the large desk in the Mayfair library, he laced his hands over his stomach. “Take it or leave it. It won’t be repeated, and don’t think you’ll get any help from any other businessman on either side of the Atlantic.” The corners of his withered lips quirked. “I’ve put the word out that you’re a bad risk.”

“What?” Kieran erupted from his chair. “I made sure that proposal was more than fair to any investor. By God, you’ll not call me dishonorable, sir.”

“Not dishonorable, no.” The American regarded his steepled fingers with half-closed eyes. “Let’s just say I left out a few details when I discussed your ideas with other men in a position to help you.”

“Just enough to make me sound like I don’t know what I’m doing.” He could not keep himself from adding quietly, “You bastard.”

The other man waved the obscenity aside. “Been called worse, with more cause. The price of doing business.” His pale blue eyes flicked over Kieran. “Actually, you’ve got a good mind for a lord.” In shock, he realized the man meant what he said. “And you’ve a lot more gumption than most of your ilk. A man who ain’t willing to get his hands dirty hardly deserves to be called one.”

“How very flattering, to be sure.” The young aristocrat bowed.

Quinn growled. “I’m not interested in your sarcasm. Do you want the deal or not?”

The Scot bowed again. “I shall inform you of my decision within the week, sir.” With that, he took his leave, determined to find another way to help his people.

He did not find one. True to his word, Quinn had poisoned the industrial world against him. At the end of seven days, Kieran had admitted defeat and accepted the American’s offer, which included the hand of Diantha Quinn in marriage.

As he passed through the golden glow of the Sienna marble foyer, he glanced at a portrait of Mrs. Quinn, along with her mother and daughter, which hung on one wall. Typically vulgar display, he snorted to himself. Nevertheless, he paused to study it closely for the first time.

Clearly a piece of self-aggrandizement for the mistress of the house, it featured the three of them in eighteenth-century garb, as if they belonged to a long-established family. Kieran admitted that the artist had done a capital job of capturing the character of his subjects. Mrs. Quinn stood in the center, preening like a peacock as she arranged a vase of flowers. To one side, her mother sat with a piece of embroidery, looking at the viewer with a sardonically arched eyebrow. Kieran smiled in spite of his foul mood. Mrs. Helford’s vinegary nature appealed to his sense of humor.

On the other side, a young Diantha handed her mother a few more blossoms, her medium brown hair arranged with a lovelock curling over one shoulder. Although she looked more attractive than in her usual garb, she had clearly not inherited her mother’s beauty. He peered closer, for a moment fancying a bleak expression in the dark blue eyes.

The echo of his footsteps abruptly ceased as he stepped from parquet flooring onto the thick strip of carpet leading to Quinn’s study. Had the girl proved conversable, he might have borne the situation better. Most of his married friends had barely known their fiancées before marriage either, and got on tolerably well. Their wives might demonstrate the typical foolishness of their gender, but they did at least carry on conversations of more than one sentence.

Unlike his fiancée, who invariably stared at the floor during their interviews, speaking in a quiet voice only to answer questions put to her. The image of year after dreary year in the company of such a dull creature rose before his eyes. And dear God, after tomorrow he would have to bed her if he hoped to beget an heir.

“Ugh.” He shook his head. He had only agreed to marry the girl. Visiting her bed had not been in the contract he had signed. If worst came to worst, his cousin Barclay could inherit the title after he died. Or rather, Barclay’s children could, since he was two years younger than his cousin and heir.

He did not consider Miss Quinn unattractive. True, she would never match her mother’s remarkable looks, but her face and figure were well enough. No, it was her spiritless demeanor that repelled him. He opened the study door and stopped dead.

To his amazement, the subject of his sour thoughts appeared in front of him. In her nightgown and a hideous bright green wrapper.

“Miss Quinn!”

“Lord Rossburn!” She must have scrambled to her feet when she heard the door open, for she stood stiffly in front of an overstuffed chair. His gaze took in the lamp, the glitter of cut crystal on the small table beside her, and a heavy book of some sort lying half open at her feet.

For once, her eyes met his, wide with guilt. They glittered strangely, and he caught his breath at the realization she had been crying. Doubtless nerves, he thought to himself.

“Forgive me for interrupting, madam.” He shifted uncertainly on his feet under her glare.

“Can’t you wait till tomorrow to start interfering with me?” She plumped herself back into the chair, curling her legs under her. “You’re not my husband yet; I shall do as I please.” He noticed that she formed the words carefully, as if struggling to force them out.

Still somewhat at a loss, his lordship groped for a reply. “I had no notion of disturbing you, Miss Quinn. By all means, continue reading.” He moved toward the liquor cabinet. “I only wish to drink a cognac before returning to my hotel.”

“Well, that is a fortuishus—fortu—” After a few more attempts to pronounce “fortuitous,” she gave up. “It’s your lucky night.” She held up an empty snifter under his shocked gaze. “Papa keeps his spirits locked up, but I had the same thought. I wager you don’t even know where he keeps the key.”

Glancing inside the open cabinet, he saw an empty space in the line of crystal decanters. Wrenching his gaze back to his fiancée, he gaped as she held up the missing container.

“I have no idea what this is, but I highly recommend it.” She swirled the liquid around its interior, and giggled. “It tastes like fire going down, but do you know, I have not felt the least draft for over an hour.”

Striding over, he relieved her of the decanter despite her protests. Up close, alcohol-scented breath confirmed her words. His fiancée had indeed imbibed a good portion of drink.

He examined the level of cognac remaining. “How much of this have you had?”

“I don’t precisely recall.” Under his incredulous eyes, she wrinkled her brow as she pondered the question. “I remember bringing the decanter over after my second glass because I kept tripping when I walked over to refill it.”

“Never mind.” He bit off the words before returning the decanter to its place and shutting the cabinet doors. Seeing the key in the lock, he turned it and faced her once more. From her position in the large chair, she regarded him with a puzzled expression.

“Aren’t you going to have your drink?” She picked up the snifter again, peering mournfully into its empty bottom.

“You need to get back to your room at once, Miss Quinn.” He ignored the mulish expression on her face. “As it is, you shall feel quite wretched tomorrow.”

“Ha!” She ejaculated the syllable bitterly. “I shall feel wretched anyway.” She shot him an unexpectedly shrewd glace. “So will you.”

Thrown off balance for a second time, he resorted to his most formal manner. “I assure you that I shall feel nothing of the sort on such a momentous occasion.”

“Stuff!” She straightened in the chair, tensing her body as if to spring. “You came in here for a drink for the same reason I did.”

“And what reason is that?” Wondering if her family had forbidden her to speak for fear of exposing a shrewish nature, he braced himself in case she flew at him.

“You don’t want to marry me any more than I want to marry you.” She did not make a move to attack him, but her accurate assessment of his feelings startled him into taking a step back.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Never mind that she spoke the truth; one did not betray one’s emotional state in public. He paced a few steps to the dark fireplace, dropping his eyes.

“You only like pretty women. Everyone says so.” The anger left her voice. “I mean, look at me.”

Although not a command, he lifted his eyes and did as she said. Miss Quinn stood once again, regarding him steadily from her place in front of the chair. Even with those appalling nightclothes tied at her waist like a pudding bag, he could detect the slim curves they covered.

For the first time he found himself able to examine her face. Brown tendrils gleamed around a firm jaw where they had escaped the thick braid hanging down her back. Her mouth with its full, curved lips hinted at sensuality.

“I have mirrors, you know.” Her voice broke into his thoughts. Although slightly slurred, it held nothing but a matter-of-fact acceptance of her appearance. It occurred to him that part of her reticence in their courtship might result from growing up with a beauty for a mother. Certainly they had conversed more in the last quarter of an hour than they had in the months previous.

“Oh dear.” She swayed suddenly and clutched at the armchair for support. She stared at him accusingly. “The room is tipping!”

He sighed. Moving toward her, he picked up the book from the floor. It had fallen open at a page detailing the mathematical composition of a Palladian building.

“You were reading this?”

She shrugged, her face closed. “Just thumbing through it.” A bitter smile twitched across her lips. “I like to look at the pictures.”

He shelved it and returned to her. “Allow me to escort you.” Holding out an arm, he waited for her to take it.

Instead, she put her hands behind her back and tried to step away from him. Stumbling over a leather-covered hassock, she nearly fell. His hands shot out to catch her and she grabbed them with a gasp. Holding her upright, he prayed for patience.

“Apparently I am doomed to assist inebriated members of your family to their bedrooms tonight.” As she emitted an outraged shriek, he scooped her into his arms and strode out of the library.

“Put me down!” She struggled for a few minutes, then ceased. “Bother! You’re making things spin again!” With a small groan, she buried her head in his shoulder as he strode toward the foyer.

“That’s the cognac, not me.”

“Really? Why on earth do men drink so much of it, then?” She raised her head for a moment, winced, and let it fall to his shoulder again. A silent laugh shook him. Clearly she was a stranger to spirits. Something inside him relaxed slightly and he chuckled at the absurd situation.

“At least you’re easier to carry than your brother.” She did not reply, merely linking her arms around his neck. To his surprise, he enjoyed the soft weight of her body. Her chest rose and fell in a deep breath and he wondered if she had fallen asleep. He cautiously set one foot on the bottom step.

He nearly lost his balance as she burrowed her face farther into his neck and inhaled again. “You smell wonderful.”

“Thank you. If you don’t mind, it would be most helpful if you did not move excessively while I’m going up the stairs.”

“Mmmmmmmm.” She sighed contentedly, and he had hopes of getting her to her chamber undiscovered. If word of this episode got into society, both their reputations would suffer. A moment later, she lifted her head slightly. Risking a quick glance at her face, he saw her staring at the carved banisters with an intent expression.

“Do you know something?” She asked the question in a ringing voice, and he hushed her.

“No, listen to me!”

“Miss Quinn, I beg you not to awaken the servants.”

Obligingly, she lowered her voice. “I’ve always thought those carvings look like something from an overambitious wedding cake.”

“An apt observation. Pray be quiet.” A sheen of sweat broke out on his brow. While his fiancée weighed considerably less than her brother, he had not carried James up the staircase. His breathing became more labored as he neared the top.

“You sound like my mother. She never wants me to talk either.” Kieran felt a flash of sympathy for the woman as his fiancée whispered on. “Do you know, she picked out the banisters herself? In France. And the gargoyles. Hello, boys!” She sang out the greeting and waved at the statues. In the light from the foyer below, he could have sworn the damned things smirked at him.

“They are indeed revolting, but I must ask you to remain silent.” Having finally reached the top of the stairs, he set her on her feet and leaned on the nearest gargoyle, gasping for breath.