Seduced by the Scoundrel Read online

  ‘I told Lord Bradon this morning. About the shipwreck and being washed up and being in the hut with you for those days and nights. I did not tell him I was naked, or about … about the summer house in the Governor’s garden. He was very calm about it. He is—oh, I don’t know!’ She threw up her hands and for a moment Luc thought she was going to cry, then she tightened her lips and controlled herself. ‘He is very emotionless, very cool. They all are. There is no feeling or warmth. But I expect we will get used to one another soon.’

  Luc put his hand on her arm. It was good to touch her and hell, too. He wanted to yank her into his embrace and kiss her senseless. She shook her head. ‘No, do not do that.’ He took his hand away, feeling absurdly as though she had slapped him. ‘I do not need sympathy. I will be all right.’

  ‘So what did Bradon say? About us?’

  ‘I told him nothing about you. I told him that I could reveal nothing about the identity of the officer involved because of the secrecy required for the mission. He appeared to accept that.’

  ‘And you are still here. So he believes you are a virgin.’

  ‘No. Not exactly. He either does not trust my word or thinks me too ignorant to know if something had happened while I was unconscious. For a month, until he is certain that I am not with child, it will be put about that I am merely a guest of the Bradons. Once he is sure, then we will become betrothed.’

  ‘My God. The cold-blooded devil. You will not stay with him, surely?’

  ‘Why not? What has changed?’ She shrugged and he felt a spurt of anger. This was not Averil, not his Averil, this obedient, long-suffering puppet. ‘I did not behave well on the islands, I should have been stronger willed. There is a contract. My family—’

  ‘Your family can shift for themselves!’ He fought to keep his voice below a quarterdeck bellow. ‘They are adult men, the lot of them. You can’t behave like a virgin sacrifice, Averil, and they should not expect it of you.’

  ‘Can’t I? What will your wife be? She will not be agreeing to a love match, will she? She will be marrying a man who wants her for her bloodlines and her deportment. Will you lie and pretend to a warmth you do not feel while all the time you sneak off to your mistresses?’

  The temper and the shreds of restraint that he was hanging on to by his fingernails escaped him. Luc hauled Averil into his arms and lost track of what he was about to say, let alone what he was thinking. She was soft and yet resilient as she pulled back against his arms, she smelled of a meadow in springtime and his mouth knew what her kiss would taste like.

  ‘I do not sneak,’ he snapped. ‘And I am not such a damned cynic as this money-grubbing Englishman you are throwing yourself away on either.’

  ‘Luc, please …’ Please go, she meant. Her mouth was soft and under his hands, her body trembled and he knew he should either release her or just hold her, give her the comfort of some human warmth and care. But the devil that had brought him here was strong and the feel and the scent of her was making his head spin with desire so he took her mouth and closed his eyes on the hurt in her green, exposed, gaze.

  She was quivering with anger and desire and vulnerability in his arms. She tasted of his dreams and she felt like heaven and he ravaged her mouth even as she twisted in his arms and kicked at his booted shins with her pretty little slippers.

  When he lifted his head she stared back, holding his eyes despite the confusion in her own. He remembered the way she had looked deep into his eyes on St Helen’s as she searched for the truth in his words.

  ‘Damn it, Averil. Be mine. Come with me—I’ll give you all the warmth you’ll ever need.’

  ‘You’ll ruin me for your own desires, you mean,’ she said flatly. ‘Let me go. Promise me you will stay away from me.’

  Sick at what he had just done, at the look in her eyes, Luc opened his hands and she stepped back. ‘There. Free. But I will not stay away, not while you need me. Not while you want me.’ Not while this madness holds me.

  ‘You—’ The effort it took to regain her poise was visible, but she managed it. ‘You are arrogant, Monsieur le Comte. I neither need nor want you. Only your absence. Goodbye.’

  Luc opened the gate for her and she went past him a swish of skirts without looking at him. He waited until she was through and said, ‘Convince me.’ The gate shut in his face and he heard the unmistakable sound of a bolt being drawn across. He should leave her to Bradon, forget her. He ran his tongue over his lips and tasted her—passionate, feminine, innocent—and knew he could no more do it than fly.

  ‘That was reasonably satisfactory.’ Andrew Bradon replaced his hat and frowned at the traffic fighting its way up and down Cornhill. There was no sign of the carriage. ‘Where has that fool got to?’

  ‘There does not appear to be anywhere he could wait.’ Averil stared at a flock of sheep being driven down the middle of the street; it was like Calcutta but cooler and with sheep, not goats. Sheep were easier to think about than what had happened this morning. Two men: ice and fire. They both burned the skin.

  ‘He should have kept circling.’ Still fuming about his coachman, Bradon extended his crooked elbow. ‘Take my arm.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She had fled upstairs from the garden and washed her face and hands, brushed out and redressed her hair, afraid that he would somehow scent Luc on her.

  ‘I do not understand why that lawyer wants all your bills sent to him to settle. He could have entrusted a sum to me to deal with on your behalf.’

  ‘Doubtless Mr Wilton will need to give Papa an exact accounting for the purposes of insurance after the shipwreck.’ And I am going to have to go through my married life being this careful and tactful. Mr Wilton saw no reason to put the money into your hands until he was forced to by my marriage. He is a canny man.

  But he was also a dusty, dry and unimaginative man, she decided. She wondered whether to write to Papa and mention this. Wilton seemed to be the sort of person who would carry out orders even if they made no sense—there was a feeling of unyielding rigidity about him. On the other hand, he did appear to be utterly devoted to Papa’s interests. Sir Joshua’s word, it seemed, was law.

  There was a navy blue uniform and a cocked hat in the crowd pouring out of the Royal Exchange. Averil told herself not to be foolish. The City must be full of naval officers; besides, he had been wearing civilian dress. Oh, my God. It is him. Luc—

  ‘My dear? What is wrong?’

  ‘That crossing sweeper—I thought he was going to be struck by the carriage with the red panels.’

  And Luc was crossing the road, coming towards them. Her heart beat so hard she thought she would be sick. No! He was going to speak. He was going to betray her in some way, make Bradon suspicious and her own position more precarious so that she would be forced into his arms. Averil closed her eyes and tried to banish the memory of just how those arms felt around her and how much she wanted to be in them.

  ‘Excuse me. I think you have dropped this?’ Luc stooped and straightened with a man’s large linen handkerchief in his hand. He made a polite bow in her direction, but his eyes passed over her with no sign of recognition and his enquiring gaze fixed on Bradon.

  ‘What? No, not mine. Obliged, sir.’

  ‘Not at all. Lord Bradon, is it not?’

  ‘Yes.’ Bradon pokered up, whether because he objected to being addressed by a stranger or because he was suspicious of anyone in naval uniform after this morning’s revelations, she could not tell.

  ‘Forgive me, but someone pointed you out to me the other day as a considerable connoisseur of porcelain.’ Under her palm Averil felt Bradon relax. It was a miracle that he could not feel her own pounding pulse.

  ‘You are interested?’

  ‘As a mere amateur. I was able to pick up some interesting Copenhagen items when I was in that area recently.’

  ‘Indeed? I do not believe we have been introduced.’ Bradon’s manner became almost cordial.

  ‘Captain le comte Luc d’Aunay.’<
br />
  Averil managed to breathe. Bradon would not suspect a count of involvement with an undercover operation and, thanks to the remark about Copenhagen, he now had a mental image of Luc being posted somewhere in the North Sea. And Luc was very properly not acknowledging a lady to whom he had not been introduced and not, as she had feared, doing anything to make Bradon suspicious. Perhaps this was a coincidental meeting. Had he recovered from that morning’s madness?

  ‘ … interesting dealer off the Strand,’ Bradon was saying as she pulled herself together to listen to the two men. ‘Feel free to mention my name.’

  ‘Thank you, I will certainly do that. Good day.’ Luc raised his hat, his gaze focused on Averil for the first time. His expression was perfectly bland with just the hint of a query.

  Her escort seemed to remember her presence. ‘Er, Miss Heydon, from India.’

  ‘Ma’am. India? I thought I had not had the pleasure of seeing you in town before.’ The bow was perfectly judged: polite and indifferent with just the hint of masculine appreciation that would be expected.

  ‘Captain.’ She inclined her head. ‘Lord Bradon’s family has kindly asked me to stay with them for a month.’

  ‘I will not delay your sightseeing any longer. Thank you for the recommendation, Bradon.’

  As Bradon turned to hail their carriage Averil glanced back, but Luc was gone, swallowed up by the crowds. What had he been doing there? Surely not following her? He had work to do at the Admiralty, she was certain; it would do his career no good if he neglected that in order to dog her footsteps in the hope she would throw her bonnet over the windmill and decide to become his mistress!

  ‘We will return to Bruton Street,’ Bradon said as they settled into the carriage. ‘Mama will have given Finch her instructions on where to take you and what you will need. We must have you creditably outfitted before anyone else sees you in that hand-me-down gown.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Averil bit her lip and reminded herself of her duty and that tumbling out of the carriage and running up Cornhill in search of Luc would be madness.

  Luc took one of the side alleys, went into the George and Vulture, the first tavern he came to, and sat at an empty table in the taproom. ‘A pint of lush,’ he said to the girl who approached, wiping her hands on her apron. Brandy was tempting, but strong beer was prudent.

  He still could not credit that Bradon was waiting a month to see if she was with child. Calculating devil. At least he had seen him now. After what Averil had said that morning he could not rest until he had seen her with her betrothed, seen how the man was with her. The tankard came and he took a swallow. Good London beer, full of hops and dry in the mouth; he had missed that.

  Yes, he was a calculating devil who did not believe Averil when she told him she was a virgin. Luc realised he was angry and drank again while he sorted that out in his head. Bradon did not believe her; in fact, he thought she could well be lying. He deserved to be called out for that alone, Luc thought as he drained the tankard.

  Getting changed, visiting the Admiralty, had distracted him not an iota from the anguish and confusion that morning’s encounter had caused, but he had not had time to think too deeply about the workings of Bradon’s mind.

  Damn it, Averil was so patently honest, he thought now. Didn’t the fool realise that she could have spun him any number of yarns—with the full support of Sir George and his sister? Bradon did not deserve her, but the very fact that he was keeping her, for a month at least, proved that he wanted her, or her dowry, more than he cared about her maidenhead and his own honour.

  In a month, possibly much sooner, he would realise that she was not with child and then the marriage would go ahead. She would become Lady Bradon and be lost to Luc for ever.

  The fantasy that had been sustaining him since he had sailed from Scilly, of Averil spread beneath him on a wide bed, gasping his name as he drove them both to ecstasy, gripped him afresh, only this time not with a wash of pleasurable anticipation, but with claws of frustration. He snapped his fingers for another tankard. Frustration and loss, if he was to take her at her word and leave her to the other man. Damn it, but he needed her. Where else would he find that enticing mixture of courage and sensuality, beauty and honesty, innocence and spirit?

  A group of clerks came in, loudly discussing a prize fight, and called for ale and food as they settled at the next table. Luc nursed his beer and let their argument wash over him until the arrival of their pie reminded him that he had been up since dawn working on his notes about the Scillies traitor. Then he had found his feet leading him to Bruton Street to watch for Averil and to try to find out what had happened with Bradon.

  Now he knew. Bradon would marry her and she had accepted that, and his lack of trust in her. The meek way she had stood there just now, her hand on his arm, ignored by the men, waiting to be acknowledged, made his blood boil. Bradon would be satisfied with his bargain, that was for sure, but he doubted it would give Averil any joy.

  But her joy, or lack of it, was no longer his business, it seemed. He ordered pie and told himself that he had to stop thinking about her. He had a wife to find. A home to build. Somehow it no longer seemed so straightforward or desirable.

  For two days Averil shopped, with Finch the stiff-backed dresser at her elbow and Grace, almost bursting with the effort to behave with as much decorum as Finch, at her heels. She wrote to Mrs Bastable, her chaperone on the Bengal Queen and another letter to her father. She wanted to write to Dita, who must now be safe at home in Devon with her family, recovering from her ordeal. But she could not risk to writing what she had to confide to her friend; she must just hope Dita would come up to London soon. She needed her so much.

  She took delivery of her new clothes and supervised her borrowed ones being cleaned, parcelled up and returned to Miss Gordon along with a letter of thanks and the assurance that her banker was dealing with the money she owed Sir George.

  She arranged flowers for Lady Kingsbury and suffered her purchases to be examined and approved. She thanked her future mother-in-law for the loan of a pearl set and some garnets and sat and addressed invitation cards for a soirée in a week’s time and she felt as though her heart was weeping in sympathy with the rain that was pouring down outside.

  As they drove back from church on Sunday Lady Kingsbury was graciously pleased to compliment her on her walking dress and bonnet. ‘You dress with taste, Miss Heydon.’

  There was no sign of the earl—he appeared only at dinner and then left. The countess did not appear remotely discommoded by his neglect. Perhaps she was glad of it, as Averil might become glad of Bradon’s absence once she was married to him. She shivered.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘You will accompany me to the Countess of Middlehampton’s reception on Tuesday evening. That will introduce you to a number of people of influence without the necessity to concern ourselves with dancing yet. You can dance, I trust?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I enjoy it.’

  ‘Excellent. Tomorrow I will review your new wardrobe with you and give you some guidance on who you will meet in London this Season. Do feel free to ask me any questions about matters of etiquette—I am sure things are different here from what you are used to.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ So, she was to be assessed to make certain she would behave the right way. Averil had no way of telling whether Bradon had told either of his parents the shocking tale of her rescue. She saw virtually nothing of the earl, and Lady Kingsbury, she suspected, would remain poker-faced and cool if she found herself in the midst of the Cyprians’ Ball.

  Her spirits rose despite the thought of Lady Kingsbury’s critical assessment. It was frivolous, but a reception would mean new people to meet, entertainment, a change of scene, noise, human contact, warmth. She needed warmth as a drooping flower needed water. She needed, more than anything, someone to put their arms around her and simply hug her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Middlehampton reception del
ivered as much noise, heat and distraction as Averil could have hoped for. For the first time since the Bengal Queen had entered northern waters she felt warm enough.

  Lady Kingsbury introduced her to a number of other young unmarried ladies and drifted off to gossip with her own cronies while Lord Bradon vanished in the direction of the card rooms. That suited Averil very well indeed. She smiled and chatted and one young lady introduced her to another and so on until her head was spinning with the effort of remembering names. Many of them had beaux and the young men flirted with Averil and the girls wanted to know about Indian silks and they all wanted to hear about life in the East and she found herself laughing and talking as if she was back in Calcutta with her friends.

  She turned, gurgling with laughter over Mr Crowther’s tale of how he had encountered an elephant at some eccentric house party in Hampshire and had been prevailed upon to mount on to its back—’Into a howdedo’—and had fallen off and his hat had been eaten by the elephant. ‘They brought it back to me three days later,’ he finished mournfully. ‘But it was never the same again.’

  There was an elegant girl reflected in one of the long mirrors, her face alight with amusement, her gown just like Averil’s. It is me! My goodness. How very au fait I look. And then a figure in a blue tailcoat with gold lace and white collar tabs appeared in the glass behind her and the laughter fled, leaving her wide-eyed and breathless.

  ‘Miss Heydon. Do you remember me? We met in the City five days ago.’ Luc stood there, chapeau bras tucked under one arm, dress sword at his side, the picture of the perfect naval officer. Which he is, she thought, her stomach swooping.

  ‘Of course. Captain d’Aunay, is it not? May I make you known to Miss Langham and Miss Frederica Arthur? And Mr Crowther, who has had much more exciting experiences of elephants than I ever had in India.’ She had an instinct to hide him in a mass of other people, even though she wanted him all to herself, alone. If Bradon saw them together he could find no blame if they were part of the crowd, surely? After all, he had introduced them himself.