The Seduction of Sara Read online

  Karen Hawkins

  The Seduction of Sara

  Contents

  Prologue

  Normally Madame du Mauier’s salon was thick with male talk…

  Chapter 1

  The only thing that stood between Saraphina Lawrence and Hades…

  Chapter 2

  Delphi had never been able to refuse a plea from…

  Chapter 3

  Hibberton Hall had gone too long without a master. The…

  Chapter 4

  If there was one thing Nicholas Montrose knew, it was…

  Chapter 5

  The heavy clock in the hallway outside the Kirkwoods’ grand…

  Chapter 6

  Sara allowed the viscount to lead her a short distance…

  Chapter 7

  Sara swept to the terrace with as much dignity as…

  Chapter 8

  “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,”…

  Chapter 9

  Sara sanded the letter she had just written and held…

  Chapter 10

  The morning after the Fairfax spectacle, Anna arrived at Aunt…

  Chapter 11

  Like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, Hibberton Hall shook…

  Chapter 12

  Hibberton Hall rang with the sound of an off-key baritone,…

  Chapter 13

  Much later that night, Nick sat in the library at…

  Chapter 14

  Wiggs appeared behind them, his thin face tight with frustration.

  Chapter 15

  Marcus St. John, the indomitable Marquis of Treymount, was being…

  Chapter 16

  Morning sunlight streaked across the empty hallways of the Duchess…

  Chapter 17

  “My lady, you asked for me?” Wiggs said, standing uneasily…

  Chapter 18

  Sara found the cottage curtains drawn, the door tightly closed…

  Chapter 19

  A week later, Anthony Elliot, the Earl of Greyley, climbed…

  Chapter 20

  Wiggs took a deep breath, then knocked on the door.

  Chapter 21

  A week passed before Sara declared herself ready to leave…

  Chapter 22

  The sitting room of Lady Langtry’s town house was an…

  Chapter 23

  It began with a letter. Addressed to Lady Bridgeton in…

  Chapter 24

  Nick tossed the reins of his horse to the waiting…

  About the Author

  Other Romances

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Paris

  January 14, 1815

  Normally Madame du Mauier’s salon was thick with male talk and laughter, but tonight all attention was turned to the card table in one corner of the room, where Nicholas Montrose, the Earl of Bridgeton, regarded his opponent with ill-disguised contempt. Baron Parkington was a slovenly snob who spent his entire life sneering at those he thought beneath him. Nick generally ignored such petty specimens of humanity, but for some reason, he felt a compulsion to flatten this particular toad-stool. And damned if he wouldn’t enjoy every second.

  Parkington’s beefy fingers thudded a sudden tattoo on the table. “Well, Bridgeton? Match the five hundred or withdraw.”

  The baron’s shrill voice grated along his nerves. Nick gazed at the man until he reddened. It was ludicrous to continue playing; the baron had lost almost every hand. Nick should have been happy with that.

  But it wasn’t enough. He wanted to humiliate the baron the same way that the baron wanted to humiliate him. To drag his name into the mud and leave it there, quivering flotsam in the stream of life.

  “I will meet your five hundred, Parkington.” Nick reached into his coat and withdrew a sheaf of papers from his inner pocket, then dropped them onto the table. “And raise you forty thousand pounds.”

  The baron blanched as a collective gasp arose from their audience. Like ravenous wolves, they smelled blood and wanted to be in on the kill.

  A bead of sweat rolled down Parkington’s cheek to join the others on his wilted collar. “Forty thousand? You must be joking.”

  “I never joke about cards.” The devil’s luck was with him tonight, and Nick couldn’t lose. Besides, defeating a man like Parkington has its own pleasures. For as much as Nick despised the baron, he also envied him. Once the game finished, the baron would return to his lodgings, pack his belongings, and go home to England.

  It had been three years since Nick had set foot on the shores of his own country—three long, lonely years. The thought held him, tightening his throat and weighting his chest.

  God, but he was getting maudlin. Nick gestured for a servant to refill his glass with Madame’s excellent brandy. He might wish to return home, but not because he missed the soggy English countryside. No, he wished to return home because he had been slighted. Nick had been forced to leave England under a cloud of suspicion, and the memory rankled still.

  A distinguished, white-haired gentleman who stood near Nick’s elbow murmured quietly, “Tempting fate, are you not, mon ami?”

  Nick flicked a glance at the Comte du Lac. He was dressed in a puce coat with sumptuous silver lacing, and his patrician face expressed nothing but polite sincerity. He looked the quintessential nobleman, but Nick knew Henri had neither title nor breeding. He was an imposter who made his way through the ton offering comfort to wealthy widows and lonely wives.

  While a moral man would have exposed such perfidy, Nick found Henri too amusing to waste his company. Besides, Nick understood what it was to be a pretender. Unknown to society, his fortune hadn’t come from ancient family coffers, but had been hard-won, wrested from the fingers of Lady Luck herself.

  Viscount Gaillard, a small, dark man who had taken on the duty of dealer, lifted a brow at the baron. “Well, Parkington? The earl has wagered forty thousand pounds. Can you meet it?”

  Parkington’s gaze remained glued on the draft that lay atop of the pile of money. He wanted it. Nick could see it in the way the man’s damp, pudgy hands tightened about the cards, the way his pink tongue traced the dry line of his too-fat lips.

  “By God, yes!” Parkington motioned for a pen and paper. It was swiftly brought and he wrote two lines across it, then signed with a flourish. “There.”

  Gaillard frowned at the paper. “What is that?”

  “Hibberton Hall,” the lackwit sneered. “My family seat in Bath.”

  An estate in England. Something shifted deep within Nick’s heart, and, for an instant, he could only stare at the piece of paper that had been tossed into the center of the table. A dull ache tightened his throat, and he was assailed with images of damp, fog-shrouded mornings and gentle rolling green hills.

  Damn it. He’d made his way alone since the age of thirteen, and his experiences had taught him the uselessness of emotion. If he returned to England, his decision would be based in reality, in necessity, not some elusive sentiment. But the time was drawing nigh when change was indeed a necessity. He must find a home of his own, somewhere secluded. Somewhere he could spend the last few lucid moments of his life.

  And those would be far sooner than anyone would have guessed. Nick looked at the baron’s scrawled writing, aware of a dull pounding at the base of his skull. “I accept,” he said quietly. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the comte shaking his head. Someone would stumble from the table a loser, a broken man with nothing left to his name, and it could well be he.

  A servant refilled his glass, and Nick took a deep drink, the ache behind his eyes increasing. It was a sign of the impending darkness. He suffered from headaches; yet they were more than hea
daches. They were hours and days of interminable pain, of swirling blackness and paralyzing fear, all combined into one. He met his opponent’s avid gaze with a bland one of his own, even while he cursed the fates that so ill-timedly drilled inside his head. “We play.”

  Gaillard dealt a card faceup in front of Parkington. The eight of clubs lay on the green felt, and a discontented murmur burst from the crowd.

  Parkington’s face beamed through the sheen of sweat. “Only a queen or higher can change your luck now.” A sneer curled his overly red lips. “I shall enjoy spending your money, but not as much as I shall enjoy telling everyone in London how I won such a sum from the infamous Earl of Bridgeton.”

  Nick glanced at the dealer. “My card, Gaillard.”

  “Oui, my lord.” The Frenchman wiped his hands on his coat, aware that every eye was upon him. He took a steadying breath, then flipped a card onto the table. The queen of hearts smiled sweetly up at Nick.

  The entire room burst into a roar of excited babble. Parkington stared, his mouth slack. “It cannot be—”

  Nick stood and nodded to the Comte du Lac, who obediently came forward to collect the winnings. Henri glanced at Parkington and smiled gently. “It happens, monsieur. Luck is a fickle creature. She loves many, but is faithful to none.”

  The baron shook his head as if to clear it of a nightmare. “I was winning until—” His breath hissed between his teeth. “Bridgeton, you bastard.”

  The comte paused in collecting the scattered banknotes. Gaillard’s black eyes widened as everyone within hearing froze in place.

  Nick continued to pull on his gloves. “My beloved parents were in fact legally wed, so I am not a bastard in the strictest sense of the word. However, if you were to question my parentage…I fear not even my mother was certain on that issue.”

  Parkington lumbered to his feet, his face now as red as it had been white. “The game was damned irregular. I demand an accounting.”

  The silence grew louder, bolstered by a silent hum of excitement. Nick flicked an infinitesimal bit of dirt from his sleeve. Damn them all. They wanted blood, and he was about to provide it for them. But he had very little time; the throb in his head had increased, and a horrible heaviness weighted his limbs.

  Henri cut a sharp glance at the baron. “Perhaps the baron has made a mistake. After all, he is English. Certainly he knows better than to imply the earl has cheated.”

  The baron sneered. “I said it once, and I will say it again: the Earl of Bridgeton is a cheat.” His lips twisted in contempt. “But what can one expect from the son of a French whore?”

  The growing ache in Nick’s head turned into a writhing pain, pushing against his skull, spreading inky spots to the corners of his eyes. He placed his hand on the edge of the table to steady himself. “Henri, will you serve as my second?”

  Henri groaned. “Not again.”

  Parkington’s beady eyes darted nervously from one to the other. “Again?”

  Henri nodded morosely. “For him, it is a hobby. We go, he fights, he kills, we leave. Then we have breakfast.”

  “There will be no breakfast this time,” Nick said quietly. He picked up the note and tucked it in his coat pocket. “We fight tonight. Name your second, Parkington.”

  The baron glanced nervously about the room and encountered a wall of seething French nobility. His desperate gaze finally alighted on a familiar face. “Billingsworth.”

  Nick could see that Mr. Billingsworth, a wealthy banker held in some esteem in Paris, had no wish to be embroiled in this drama. But the baron didn’t give him the opportunity to refuse. He immediately began to remove his coat. “Shall we go outside?”

  Nick raised his brows. “Why? This room is large enough.”

  “Quelle domage,” Gaillard exclaimed. “You cannot fight a duel in here.”

  “Yes, we can.” Nick removed his gloves, flicking a contemptuous glance at the baron. “What will it be? Swords or pistols? I have both in my carriage.”

  The baron loosened his cravat with a quick jerky movement, then yanked his arms out of his waistcoat. “Pistols.”

  Nick turned to a servant. “Ask my footman for my dueling pistols.”

  The servant scurried off as Henri shook his white head. “The things you do, mon ami. There is no stopping you in this folly, I suppose.” He sighed. “If you are to fight in the salon, then we must have more room. Gaillard, help me move these tables.”

  In a matter of moments, the room was cleared of furniture, the pistols brought and examined by both seconds, and everything prepared for the duel.

  Nick smiled briefly at Henri. “It appears it is my lot in life to relieve the world of as many fools as possible.”

  “At this rate, there will be no one left in Paris.”

  “Then perhaps the time has come for us to go to England.”

  The comte pursed his mouth. “They say the women in London are without compare.”

  Nick nodded. Though the Parisian women carried their own allure, he missed the freshness of a true English beauty.

  Within a remarkably short time, Gaillard had counted off the paces in the silent room. Leaving Henri, Nick took his mark opposite the baron. Anyone seeing the earl might think him unprepared, for he held his gun loosely to his side, his stance negligent.

  But the comte apparently thought otherwise, for he called out, “Don’t kill him, Bridgeton. Not here.”

  Gaillard signaled for quiet. “Fire on three, gentlemen. Are you ready?” At their nods, he began the count. “One.”

  Nick met the baron’s furious gaze and smiled gently through the swell of pain behind his eyes. The baron’s mouth thinned, perspiration gleaming on his upper lip.

  “Two,” Gaillard said.

  There was a second of deathly stillness, then Gaillard opened his mouth to give the signal. But before he had time to speak, Parkington yanked up his hand and a brack of red fire exploded from his pistol.

  A vase over Nick’s shoulder shattered into a thousand pieces, falling to the marble hearth in tinkling discord.

  The comte started forward. “Foul! Gaillard did not count three!”

  “Oui!” Gaillard said, his face frozen with disgust. “The baron fired early.”

  Behind Nick’s eyes, hot, red anger flickered to a flame. “Finish the count.”

  Gaillard hesitated, then agreed, his visage stern.

  Parkington dropped his gun, his eyes wide. “It was an accident! I didn’t mean—”

  “Three,” Gaillard said.

  Nick lifted his gun and sighted down the barrel.

  The baron backed away, his hands before him. “Please! I was only—”

  A sharp crack echoed through the room. The baron gave a startled cry as the bullet ripped away the flesh of his left ear and sent him whirling backwards. He stumbled against the wall, then slid to the floor. There he sat, his eyes wide with fright, moisture dribbling from the corner of his mouth, a slow well of blood soaking into his collar. A frantic babble erupted from the crowd.

  The comte wiped his brow. “Mon Dieu, I thought you would kill him.”

  Nick tossed his gun to a slack-mouthed servant. “And mar Madame du Mauier’s Persian rug? Not even I could commit such a crime.” He gripped the back of a chair in an effort to halt the swell of black spots that danced along the edges of his sight, his stomach roiling in protest at the abrupt movement.

  The comte looked at him with a dark frown. “You look pale. The headache, non?”

  Nick nodded once, praying he hadn’t waited too long to leave. “Make my apologies to Madame du Mauier. I will, of course, pay for any damages she thinks necessary.” He swayed as he turned, and Henri caught his arm.

  “Perhaps I should see you home. You look—”

  “No.” Nick shook off Henri’s hand. “I don’t need a nursemaid.”

  Henri hesitated, then stepped away. “Send word if you need me.”

  Nick didn’t answer, focused on staying upright. He walked from the room,
only vaguely aware of the congratulations offered at all sides. He didn’t worry what they thought of his lack of response; they would think him disdainful and rude, and merely respect him all the more.

  With relief, he saw his coach was pulled up to the entrance. He climbed in and sank against the squabs as a footman silently closed the door and waved the coachman on his way. Jaw clenched, Nick tried to still the grip of nausea. All he had to do was make it home, he told himself, fisting his hands tightly, willing himself to remain conscious as the coach jolted down the road.

  Through the unrelenting agony, a thought sprang forth, clear and cool like the quiet trickle of a fountain under a relentless summer sun: I own a house in England, my own estate. As soon as he was able, he would plan his triumphant return and show those who’d dare scoff at him that he was not a man to be dismissed.

  No. He was the Earl of Bridgeton, and to hell with the world.

  Chapter 1

  London

  January 28, 1815

  The only thing that stood between Saraphina Lawrence and Hades was a respectable marriage bed. Given her choice, she would have leapt over the bed and raced straight into the flames wearing nothing but the famed Lawrence sapphires, her arms spread wide to embrace the wild heat. It was a pity her brothers wouldn’t get out of the way.

  “Damn all interfering men,” she muttered, staring morosely out the window of the slow, plodding carriage.

  Her aunt’s eyes widened in the uncertain light that shimmered across the silver strands at her temple. “I beg your pardon?”

  That was Aunt Delphi’s answer to everything—pretend you didn’t hear and look annoyingly innocent. So far it had won her a duke who’d had the good grace to die within twelve months of the wedding, and a handsome jointure that gave her a startling amount of independence. Not that Aunt Delphi ever used it.