The Seduction of Sara Page 3

  Sara’s anger threatened to choke her. “Who are you to know what I want and need? Marriage is not the answer.”

  Chase spread his hands wide. “Think about it, Sara. You wouldn’t be so…alone. Marriage can be a wonderful thing.”

  “Oh? I don’t see any of you galloping to the altar.”

  Her brothers looked at one another, unease settling among them like a haze of acrid smoke. But she knew their unease would not make them rethink their decision—they were determined to ship her off to Bath as soon as possible.

  She couldn’t stay in London without funds; she wouldn’t have the money to maintain her household, her stables, or anything else. But her brothers were crazed if they thought she would quietly retire to Bath, chastised into becoming some sort of demure schoolroom miss—especially while they were shopping about for her next damned husband.

  Sara looked down at her fingers where three sapphire rings glittered, anger settling into a hard knot of resolve. It was time she took matters into her own hands. She would go to Bath, but she would be the one to select her next husband. And this time there would be no affection, no risk of pain. Nothing but a polite agreement to marry. And then, like all society couples, they would go their own ways, free from her brothers’ smothering interference. It was an idyllic picture.

  Of course, she’d lose her widow’s jointure the second she married. That meant that her future husband would have to be well-heeled, as well as having an undemanding nature. Perhaps an older man. A widower, if there was one to be found. Someone who would settle for friendship, good conversation, and nothing more. It was a difficult proposition, but not impossible. And fortunately for her, if ever there was a place to find an older, settled widower, Bath was it.

  Sara looked at Marcus. “Is there anything else you wished to speak to me about?”

  He frowned, a flash of uncertainty in his dark blue gaze. “You will be leaving within the month.”

  “Fine.” Sara went to the door and opened it. “I have no recourse other than to capitulate. But don’t expect me to like it.”

  Marcus’s jaw softened slightly. “Sara, trust us. We are only thinking of your future.”

  “So am I,” she replied, her fingers tight about the doorknob. “But I’m seeking more than safety. I want happiness, Marcus. And I won’t settle for anything less.” Without waiting for his reply, she left, slamming the door behind her.

  Damn them all. The angry clip of her jeweled heels was loud in the empty hallway. In the distance came the noise of the ball, the swell of music irritating her ragged spirits.

  She knew exactly the type of man her brothers would choose for her—someone as arrogant and overbearing as they were. Someone who would try to control her every move. But they had forgotten one thing: she was a St. John through and through. In all the blood-wrought battles throughout all the ages, no St. John had ever cried defeat. And Sara wasn’t about to become the first.

  Chapter 2

  Bath, England

  February 21, 1815

  Delphi had never been able to refuse a plea from one of her nephews, or from any of her numerous family members, for that matter. So when Marcus had unexpectedly asked her to chaperone Sara in Bath, Delphi had meekly agreed, even though she was no match for her niece’s natural liveliness. Especially not since she admired that very trait.

  When Delphi arrived at the Lawrence town house for the trip to Bath four weeks after the Treymount ball, she found Sara in an unexpected mood—smiling and excited. She even laughed Heartily at all of Delphi’s weak attempts to jest, which made Delphi experience a growing spasm of uncertainty. Whatever was Sara up to?

  Her unease grew when an old school friend of Sara’s, Miss Anna Thraxton, called within an hour of their arrival in Bath. Granted, Miss Thraxton’s family was well-known and connected to almost everyone worth knowing. It could not be denied, however, that they had fallen on hard times. This was due mainly to the eccentricity of Anna’s esteemed grandfather, a retired judge who spent a considerable amount of time writing pamphlets calling for the disposition of wealth from the upper classes to the lower classes in a fashion he called “redistribution.”

  Since Sir Thraxton was connected to so many of the best names in society, no one was willing to question his acceptability. Still, it was widely felt that the gentleman’s political tendencies bordered on treason, and only the most foolish allowed the conversation to drift from such safe topics as the weather or horse racing.

  Miss Anna Thraxton, however, was a very pleasant companion. Tall and auburn-haired, with gray eyes, a serene smile, and an unfortunately autocratic nose, it was a shame that financial circumstances rendered her ineligible as a potential wife for one of Delphi’s handsome nephews. A woman of such Junoesque proportions would surely complement the family line.

  Be that as it may, within a very few moments of sitting with Anna and Sara, Delphi became aware that there was a private conversation going on beneath the innocuous small talk. Sara’s eyes positively glowed with excitement, and Anna more than once made a mysterious reference that sent Sara into a paroxysm of choked laughter.

  Delphi’s heart sank. There was no denying it; Sara was up to something. And whatever it was, Delphi was certain she had no ability to stop it. Yet as nervous as the thought made her, Delphi had to admit to some secret excitement at being in Bath.

  She was tired of the sameness of her life. Perhaps it was the approach of her forty-third birthday that was so oversetting. That was the age at which her own mother had died, and Delphi didn’t want to be like her mother, who had given her whole life to her children and husband and then just faded away.

  No, Delphi wanted something…else. A surge of excitement was quickly followed by guilt. Who was she to decry her circumstances? She possessed more than her fair share of good fortune. She had a warm and loving family, more money than she could possibly spend, several properties—it was a shame that she was so ungrateful. Unaccountably depressed, she left Sara and Anna alone to gossip about their school friends.

  Sara was pleased to discover that Anna was just as she remembered—quick-witted and pragmatic, with a flair for scheming that was unrivaled.

  “The nerve of your brothers,” Anna exclaimed upon being told the circumstances leading to Sara’s arrival in Bath. “And now they expect you to sit idly by while they find a husband for you? That is positively medieval!”

  “Yes. Julius is dead and Marcus will not rest until he has buried me, as well. Which is why I have made a decision.” Sara picked up a tasseled pillow from the settee and plumped it mercilessly. “I plan to find my own husband. Someone who is malleable, who understands a civilized union and will not dictate to me. I want my freedom.”

  “Hmm.” Anna looked at her thoughtfully, then said, “We will also need to find a man with a fortune. It can be done; ‘malleable’ and ‘wealthy’ are not always disparate traits.”

  Sara nodded. “I lose my jointure the day I marry.”

  “You’d want a handsome man, too,” Anna mused. “One young enough to understand your need for enjoyment.”

  “If possible—although I may have to compromise on such things.” She refused to think of how much she might have to compromise. Still, armed with their set of criteria, she and Anna began to make a list of prospects.

  Two weeks later, after a flurry of visits, Sara began to realize how difficult her search really was. She stood with Anna at the Jeffries ball watching the meager company fill the grand parlor. In London, a gathering this miniscule would only have declared itself a “soiree.” But here in Bath, with over forty couples present and two dozen single persons, the Jeffries “ball” was already being touted a glittering success.

  “What about that one?” Anna whispered.

  Sara turned to where Anna pointed. A young man stood by the wide white doors that led into the ballroom. Thin, with a wisp of yellow hair drooping over his shiny forehead, he reminded Sara of a wilted sprig of thyme. She hunched a shoulder. “He l
ooks delicate. I don’t want a sickly husband.”

  Anna looked around. “This side of the room appears to be lacking eligible males.”

  “Maybe we would fare better on the other side.” Sara took Anna’s arm, and they sauntered across the Jeffries ballroom, eyeing every man they passed. It was a depressing exercise in futility. Bath was populated with an astounding number of stodgy, respectable men—men who would want their wives to sit at home and sew samplers and bear a horrendous number of children. Sara could read it in their eyes.

  It was yet another dastardly aspect of Marcus’s plan: since the season had started, all the eligible men would be safely ensconced in London, waiting for the new batch of heiresses.

  Anna blew out a disgusted sigh. “I don’t see a one that will do. They are all either too timid or too conventional. I thought about Captain Rothschilde, but he’s fifty years old if he’s a day, and I don’t think he’d be at all lenient with a young wife.”

  “The man I need could be a hundred years old for all the difference it makes.” Time was marching on, and she just knew that Marcus was already holding interviews with potential candidates for her hand.

  She narrowed her gaze on a young man who hovered nearby, as if gathering his nerve to ask one of them to dance. He froze when he caught her gaze. The more she stared, the redder he became until, finally, he turned and almost ran from the room, his head tucked as if afraid she would follow.

  Sara made a sound of disgust. “Are there no real men here tonight?”

  “It doesn’t appear so,” Anna said with genuine regret. “I’ve been wracking my brain and I can think of only two men who might suit your purpose, though neither are perfect.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Stapweed or the Earl of Bridgeton. Unfortunately, Stapweed has an annoying tendency to spit when he speaks.”

  Ugh. “What about Bridgeton?”

  “The earl is, as Grandfather would say, morally corrupt.” Anna made a face. “Grandpapa has taken to reading Methodist literature.”

  “Tell me more about this earl. Who is he?”

  “He recently moved into Hibberton Hall, Parkington’s old place. Lady Chultney told Grandpapa that the earl is the most depraved man on Earth.”

  “Lady Chultney also thought Lord Collinsworth killed his wife, when she was only visiting relatives in the north.”

  “That is quite true, the poor dear. However, Grandpapa told me the same thing about the earl. He is familiar with the family, you know. And Lord Peebleton refused to recognize the earl when they met in the park last week—gave him the cold shoulder as soon as he saw him.”

  Well, that was interesting, indeed. Lord Peebleton was not known to be a stickler. “Whatever has the earl done?”

  “No one will say…” Anna glanced around as if afraid someone would overhear. Then she opened her fan and whispered behind it, “But Lady Chultney believes he once abducted a woman for unsavory purposes.”

  “Sounds like a Banbury story to me.”

  “I think he must be excessively romantic to go to such lengths to secure a woman’s affections.” Anna smiled, a wistful look in her eyes. “Just imagine! A man who would defy the law in your name and whisk you away to his palace—”

  “The earl has a palace?”

  “Well, no. He has been renovating Hibberton Hall for the past month, which is why he hasn’t been in town much. But I’ve heard it said that he is as handsome as an angel—a fallen angel.” Anna lowered her voice. “At one time, just being seen talking to him could ruin a woman forever.”

  “And now?”

  “He inherited a title,” Anna said matter-of-factly. “Not to mention that he just returned to England with a tremendous fortune.”

  “Which immediately cancels all crimes he has committed, short of murder.”

  “Exactly. And Grandpapa thinks the earl wants to reestablish himself in society. It would do him a lot of credit to marry into your family, as the St. Johns are above reproach.” Anna suddenly chuckled. “I never thought of it this way before, but this is just like a novel from the lending library—only there is no hero.”

  “I don’t need a hero. I was blessed with a large amount of common sense, which is of infinitely more use than a man.”

  “Hear, hear,” Anna said approvingly. “If you want true affection, get a pet. They are much cleaner and far more amusing.”

  “And infinitely more loyal. A pity Marcus wouldn’t be content with my purchasing a greyhound for company.”

  “Yes, I—” Anna suddenly clutched her friend’s hand. “Good God, Sara, he’s here.”

  “Who? Marcus?” That would be just like him—to send her to Hades, then come to keep an eye on her himself.

  “No, no,” Anna said, grabbing Sara’s arm and yanking her around a potted palm so they could stare undetected at the entryway. “The Earl of Bridgeton just walked in. Look!”

  Sara followed her friend’s wide, fixed gaze.

  Striding into the room as if he owned the world, was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Tall and broad-shouldered, the newcomer walked with a negligent grace, his movements as fluid as melted silver. His flawlessly cut coat clung to his athletic shoulders, his breeches molded over muscular thighs. His patrician nose and sensual mouth had been carved by a master hand. Every inch of him bespoke power and decadence, from hair the color of gold to skin brushed with the slightest touch of bronze.

  He was beyond beautiful—he was as magnificent as sin.

  “Good God,” Anna breathed. “I’ve never seen such a perfect man.”

  “Perhaps we should pinch him just to be certain he’s real.”

  Anna chuckled. “I’d volunteer, but your Aunt Delphi already looks at me as if she thinks I might begin sprouting horns.”

  “Aunt Delphi? She loves you.”

  “No, she doesn’t. She’s worried I’m a bad influence on you, and if she had any idea what we were doing right now, she’d blame the whole thing on me without a second’s pause.”

  “Do you think so?” Sara said absently, her mind still on the earl. Perhaps she’d been going about this all wrong. Maybe what she really needed was a rakehell. Surely a man given to sin would never stop his wife from attending gaming hells, or dressing as she pleased, or doing whatever took her fancy, providing she was discreet.

  The idea held immense appeal.

  She watched the earl walk to the receiving line and bow to Lord Jeffries, who frowned, his face turning a bright red. There was no mistaking the surprise on the man’s face. “I wonder if Bridgeton even had an invitation,” she murmured.

  “Surely he wouldn’t come without one!” Anna exclaimed.

  Just as Sara wondered if Lord Jeffries would eject the earl from his ballroom, the portly older man bowed. Sara supposed she shouldn’t be surprised.

  What else could he do? Make a scene at his own ball?

  She had to admire the earl’s boldness. Even from this distance, she could tell he was a man who’d transgressed more than his fair share. Someone called out the earl’s name and he turned, his sensual mouth curved in a lopsided smile that made Sara’s throat go completely dry.

  “Look,” Anna said, “Lady Bedford is dragging your Aunt Delphi into the cardroom. She’ll be occupied for half an hour at least.”

  “Excellent,” Sara said, glancing around. She was not the only one affected by the earl’s presence. Olivia Charles already had her smelling salts clenched in her hand, while Melinda Loundry was positively gawking. There wasn’t a woman in the room who wasn’t staring, openly or otherwise.

  In fact, even Anna was once again staring. She went so far as to lick her lips, as if regarding a particularly succulent pastry. “Our coloring would blend well.”

  “Yes, you would make a lovely set of statues. Once I convince him to marry me, perhaps your grandpapa will commission a portrait of the two of you.”

  Anna grinned. “You can’t blame me for dreaming. I never knew he was so beautiful.”

&
nbsp; “On the outside, perhaps. But on the inside, he has a hard lump of coal for a heart—all rakes do.” Just like Julius—and this time Sara would be very careful to remain emotionally detached. “I rather like the fact that he has no heart. I don’t plan on using mine, either. Come on. I want a word with him.”

  Anna’s gaze narrowed on Sara. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to see if he’ll accompany me to the terrace, so that I can interview him. I’m not going to make another mistake.”

  “Sara, if anyone catches the two of you alone, you will be compromised.”

  “Who said anything about being alone? You will be with us.”

  “But—”

  “I have to talk to him and make sure that he suits our purpose. Wait for me by the terrace door, Anna. I’ll be right back.”

  Ignoring Anna’s sigh of exasperation, Sara slipped from behind the palm and made her way toward the decadent Earl of Bridgeton and all his golden glory. For the first time since she’d arrived in Bath, a wing of hope brushed Sara’s bruised spirit. Trying to still the thud of her heart, she planted herself in the earl’s path and waited.

  Nick stifled a yawn. What mad impulse had possessed him to attend such an insipid affair as Lord Jeffries’ ball? He hadn’t been here for five minutes and already tedium was pulling at his lids, as if he had risen from a deep sleep and could not awaken. He supposed he should just consign himself to an evening of unrelieved boredom. After all, like it or not, this was where he had to begin if he was to rebuild his place in society.

  When he’d been younger, he had been judged on his association with his mother, measured by her erratic, immoral behavior, and branded a dangerous youth even when he’d been too young to understand the whispered comments. But such treatment had toughened him, and he had eventually grown into his initially undeserved reputation, accepting it with a boldness that added to his notoriety.

  At Nick’s side, the Comte du Lac gave a satisfied sigh as he watched a small cluster of women swish by in a cloud of satin, lace, and scent. “I begin to see why you so desired to return to England. The women, they are—” he kissed his fingers to the air, smiling dreamily. “Each and every one of them.”