Only Seduction Will Do Read online

  Looking up from counting, she gazed at them, then a smile touched her full red lips. She laid her pen down, her scrutiny resting briefly on each of the other men, and lastly coming to rest on Jack. Her delicately arched eyebrows swooped up, and her face lit with keen speculation.

  “What pleasure may I arrange for you gentlemen this evening?” The throaty purr sent hot blood straight to Jack’s groin. He shifted uncomfortably, but managed to meet her dark, entrancing eyes.

  “Thank you, Madame Vestry.” Cryr bowed and smiled knowingly. “That is indeed our intent this evening.”

  Though the others had not expressed a desire to engage one of the “ladies” for the evening, now they all three looked like eager, guilty schoolboys. Perhaps the aura of the house had changed their minds. The bawdy dance and lewdly dressed “ladies” had a pull, especially the smell of the place, with its musky undertone of male essence that bespoke why they came to this place. It had stiffened Jack’s resolve, among other things.

  “We want special attention paid to Manning here. This is his first visit to your establishment, Madame,” Bentley said, a smirk on his face. “If you would be so kind as to make it especially memorable, I would be very grateful.”

  God, there was nothing for it now. Despite the service Vestry had done his family, Jack still wanted nothing to do with her or her girls. That his body protested something different didn’t matter a damn. He could withstand the temptation if only he could get the hell out of this house.

  Madame Vestry continued to stare at Jack, a calculating look in her eyes that chilled him. Even the presentation of generous payment had had no effect on her gaze. At last she smiled and nodded. “As you wish, gentlemen.” Running a shapely finger down a list of names in a big, black ledger, she halted halfway down the page. “Sir Bartholomew?”

  Sir Bart swelled forward, an eager light in his eyes.

  “Chloe will attend you in the yellow room. I recall you enjoyed her the last time you were here. She has learned”—the madame paused and Sir Bart leaned forward over the desk—“something new to show you.”

  A muffled groan and Sir Bart quickly tossed several coins on the desk and hurried out.

  “Now as I recall, Lord Cryr, your tastes run to buxom blondes. There is a new girl, Solange, whom you may find to your liking. Long honey-blond hair and plump, tantalizing breasts you won’t want to miss.” She raised a pert, dark eyebrow. “If not, Jenny will be available shortly.”

  “Solange is such a sultry name.” Cryr licked his lips and swallowed hard.

  “She has eyes dark as sloes. A very striking combination.” Vestry poised her pen over a name.

  “I believe a new face would cheer me excellently this evening, Madame Vestry.”

  “I suspected it might, my lord. The burgundy room at the top of the stairs.” She held out the pen.

  He plucked it from her hand and scratched out the letters IOU with mounting excitement that made the quill tremble. He scurried from the room with a parting, “My thanks, Madame Vestry,” over his shoulder.

  “Will Helen be acceptable, Lord Bentley? Your tastes are perhaps more extreme than we usually accommodate. If Helen will not please, there is perhaps one other who can grant you every pleasure…” Vestry’s gaze never wavered from Bentley’s face, as if sizing him up, issuing some sort of ultimatum.

  “Helen will do. I’ve grown accustomed to her and her to me.” Bentley’s eyes flickered with glee for a moment as he shifted from foot to foot, obviously ready to be gone.

  “The blue room.”

  He seized the pen, scribbled something illegible, and headed out the door. Almost in the corridor, he turned to Jack. “Enjoy your first Pleasure here, Manning.” With a grin, Bentley disappeared.

  The quiet of the almost deserted office was broken by the occasional burst of hoarse laughter or the loud groans of some patron in the throes. Jack tried to shut his ears, but to no avail.

  Madame Vestry leaned back in her gilded leather secretary’s chair. “Well, my lord, we meet at last.”

  Something in her tone sent an icy trickle of sweat sliding between his shoulder blades. “Yes, Madame Vestry. I have heard much about you through my sister, the marchioness.”

  “She is well?”

  “Tolerably so. A shocking incident regarding her sister-in-law has sent her to bed. Otherwise, she is very well.” The awkwardness eased a trifle. His sister considered Vestry an ally. Perhaps he should as well.

  “That is good to hear. I wish her well.”

  Jack relaxed further. “I think we can dispense with a companion for me this evening, Mrs. Vestry. I will leave and my companions can spend the night or find their own ways home.” Even though his groin ached as though it would burst if not satisfied, something urged him to depart quickly and quietly.

  “What a shame, Lord Manning, when I have the perfect woman for you. A sultry temptress who will foretell all kinds of pleasure she will give you this evening.” The combination of the madame’s unblinking stare, her soft sensual voice, her dark hair framing her smooth, pale face, and her red lips sent a siren call to him.

  His heart raced faster, his skin scorched hotter than if he stood next to a blazing fire. His shaft surged toward her heat and he resisted the urge to clamp his hands over his privates. The woman was a temptress and completely unsuitable for a tryst.

  “I think Cassandra will fulfill your every wish, my lord.” The rigid stare that emanated from the small woman would have done Webb credit.

  Weariness overwhelmed Jack. He wished only for a carriage to take him home and a soft bed when he arrived there. Still, that urging from below kept his imagination conjuring up Cassandra, which in turn conjured up his cock as well. Hard as a brick now. His battle with his baser nature would be revealed for Vestry and anyone else walking by in moments. So why the hell not? Get this House of Pleasure initiation over with and satisfy his companions—not to mention himself—then head home and to bed. “Cassandra is in which room, Madame Vestry?”

  “The green room, my lord. Shall I take you there?” She licked her lips and Jack’s legs threatened to buckle. What would this woman do to him if he took her to bed instead? The image of their bodies tangled on a bed of rumpled sheets made him stop, heart pounding.

  “Thank you.”

  She didn’t move a muscle and Jack’s leg began to twitch.

  “If you would be so kind as to give me your vowels, if you please, Lord Manning.”

  God, what next? In a frenzy he grabbed the pen and scribbled his signature and the initials IOU in the black ledger and tossed the pen down.

  “This way, my lord.”

  As if in a trance, Jack followed her out of the office, back down the corridor to a room on the right.

  “The green room, my lord. I hope this experience will be…enlightening.” Another sly smile and she strode back toward her office, Jack transfixed by the gentle sway of her hips in the blue silk gown.

  Jack turned to the old, brown scarred door and steeled himself. Courage in hand, he gripped the latch and pushed down. The door opened smoothly.

  A woman in a bedraggled purple dress rose. “What pleasure may I give you—”

  What the hell was going on? His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “Miss Carlton?”

  Chapter 2

  “Are you quite all right, miss?” Clemons hovered over Alethea as she straightened from the chamber pot that now held the remains of her breakfast. The young lady’s maid frowned and held out a wet cloth.

  “No, Clemons, I doubt that I am.” Gratefully, Alethea took the cloth and wiped her lips. Likely she would never be right again. “The oysters from last night’s dinner have apparently not set well.”

  “I don’t hold with all that exotic seafood, miss. A good hearty chicken with a sauce would do ever so much better.” Clemons took the soiled cloth and handed her a fresh one.


  “Thank you.” After retreating to her bed, Alethea lay down, pressing the cloth to her face, grateful for the coolness and that her stomach had settled at last.

  The maid grabbed the noisome chamber pot and headed for the door. “Should I ask her ladyship to call for the doctor, miss? You’ve been sick so much recently. Maybe it’s not just the oysters.”

  Sighing, Alethea wiped the now warm cloth over her hot cheeks. “No, that won’t be necessary. I don’t want to worry my cousin unduly. This will right itself in no time.”

  “As you say, Miss Forsythe.” Clemons left, shutting the door and leaving Alethea alone. Not a state she liked to find herself in.

  After staring at the sky-blue ceiling of her room while her thoughts ran rampant, Alethea closed her eyes as tears trickled down her face. Her sickness didn’t come from last night’s oysters. Neither would it right itself, at least not for another six months. Trickle turned into a torrent and she turned on her side, burying her head in the pillow.

  She’d tried to ignore the illness that had come upon her when she rose each morning for the past two months. Tried to ignore her abhorrence for anything sweet, when usually she couldn’t get enough. Tried hard to ignore the tenderness and swelling in her breasts that shouldn’t be there unless she had her courses, which had deserted her since last August.

  Apparently, one moment of despair and weakness in September had led to the undeniable fact she was increasing. Denying it any longer would do no good whatsoever. That Eithne had not guessed yet seemed nothing short of a miracle. Oh, but she dreaded her cousin’s reaction to the news, though Alethea suspected Lord Braeton’s would be worse. She was under his guardianship while she was here and he would not take it lightly that she’d been ruined right under his nose. He’d tried hard to keep a tight rein on her activities even as he’d hosted ball after ball in an attempt to find her a husband. What he would do now that she’d become unmarriageable she couldn’t even imagine, save to think it would not be pleasant for her at all.

  Hot tears continued to fall and her chest ached with the anguish of knowing now she’d never be able to marry the man she wanted more than anything in the world. The man who had scorned her and driven her to this pass.

  Memory of that evening at the Hunt Ball threatened to surface, but she resolutely refused to allow it. Miserable as she was, that memory would reduce her to a pool of agony she simply could not face. Not now.

  Taking a deep breath, she gathered her strength and threw back the soft, warm covers. Time to pay the piper. When Clemons returned she would dress, ask to speak to her cousin, make her confession, and suffer the consequences. As you sow, so shall you reap. Her father’s favorite admonition to her all during her childhood. One saving grace, albeit a small one, was her father’s absence. At home in Ireland still, he would not witness the harvest about to begin.

  * * * *

  Dressed in her favorite deep green and cream waterfall gown, Alethea bit her lips as Eithne poured tea in the pretty little parlor she called her sanctuary. The pink and green covered furniture, frilled with bows and ruffles wherever they could be attached, always seemed the complete opposite of her cousin’s personality. A more down-to-earth woman you wouldn’t find in the length and breadth of England. More at home on a horse than in a room such as this. Indeed, her cousin had just returned from a long ride in the park and was dressed in a severely cut black riding habit.

  “I was so sorry you were unwell again, Alethea, and so couldn’t accompany Braeton and myself. I know how you love to ride. You haven’t seemed to have ridden much since the fall.” Her cousin dropped a lump of sugar into her tea, then sipped and sighed, a smile on her lips. “I have quite come to enjoy this English blend of tea. I never thought I would change from the blend my mother always used. This smoky flavor, however, is quite delicious. Don’t you agree?”

  Alethea took a small sip, waited to see if it would settle well in her stomach, then relaxed when it did no more than warm her. “Yes, it is very good.”

  “You’ve neglected to put in sugar, my dear. And you with a sweet tooth from the cradle.” Eithne grasped a small square of moist fruit cake and popped it into her mouth.

  Shuddering, Alethea sipped again. “I seem to have taken sweets in dislike these days.” The very smell of sugar would sometimes cause her stomach to roil.

  “Too much indulgence over the Christmas holiday I suppose.” Eithne eyed her, brows drawing down. “Pray do tell me you are not sickening with anything. We are about to go into Kent until spring, but if you need a doctor, my dear, I shall call Pritchett directly.”

  “No, that will not be necessary, cousin.” Alethea set her cup down and laced her fingers together. Gathering courage. “I do think there is something you should know, however.”

  Eithne looked up from the tea tray she’d been contemplating. Snaring a cherry tart, she bit it in two, the cherry juice staining her lips dark red. “What is that, my dear?”

  The words wanted to stick in Alethea’s throat, but she forced them out. “I fear I am increasing.”

  Cherry tart exploded from Eithne’s mouth, raining bits of cherries and crust on her black habit, the tea tray, and the floor around her. “You’re what?”

  Alethea winced at the deafening screech.

  “You cannot be with child, Alethea. You have not been with a—” She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes narrowing. “When did it happen?”

  “At the Hunt Ball,” Alethea whispered, trying to make herself small as possible.

  “Who? Who was it? Braeton will have his guts for garters.”

  “I won’t tell you.” Alethea raised her chin. She’d already settled this point with herself, and determined she wanted no one to know the identity of the father and thereby the extent of her folly. A promise she wanted to keep above all else.

  Wiping the sticky mess from her clothing, Eithne drew her mouth into a tight pucker, looking like she’d bitten into a sour lemon. “You will tell me, girl, and quickly. The sooner we know, the sooner you can marry and no one need know a thing. Babies often come early and if you’re already married it will matter much less to the ton.”

  “I cannot marry him.” Desperately hoping her treacherous, churning stomach would not further disgrace her, Alethea clutched the edge of her bodice, her fingers frantically rubbing the delicate lace covering her stomacher.

  “You absolutely will marry him,” Eithne fired back, her voice like a hunter after the hounds. “As soon as I tell Braeton, he will force the man to marry you. No self-respecting gentleman—”

  “He cannot force the man to marry me for he is married already.” The bold statement hung in the chilly air. Alethea began shaking.

  Eithne’s face paled, her bright red hair seeming to have drawn all the color out of it. “You took a married man to your bed? Alethea, how could you!”

  “I…I didn’t mean to.” Oh, Lord, she hadn’t meant to cry either. “And it wasn’t in my bed. It was in the stable.”

  “My God, was it a groom? The coachman? Did he force you?” Eithne shook with rage. “His name, Alethea. Since it wasn’t a gentleman Braeton can’t have satisfaction of him, but he can horsewhip the blackguard within an inch of his life. A gentleman would not force a lady, but a stable hand or groom…well, Braeton will have the cur horsewhipped and then shoot him.”

  “He wasn’t a groom and he didn’t force me.” Alethea had to raise her voice to be heard over her cousin’s hysterics. “I was upset, trembling, distraught over something someone had said that I overheard. I went to the stable to get one of the grooms to saddle Goliath. I wanted to feel the wind in my face, let it blow me free of all the ugliness. I found this gentleman instead.” She hung her head. “He saw I was crying and tried to comfort me. He told me all the things I wanted to hear from the man who didn’t want me.” Tears splashed onto her hands, fisted in her lap. “Then we were in a dark cor
ner of the stable and I…I let him.” She glanced at her cousin.

  Stony-faced, Eithne stared at her, though perhaps a glint of compassion lurked in her eyes. “Who was it?”

  Shaking her head, Alethea rose, needing to move or go mad. “You don’t need to know. No one does. Especially not if it will cause Lord Braeton to call the man out. I’ll not have you a widow because of my folly.”

  “Folly? Aye, and then some.” Eithne slumped on the sofa as if completely drained of all emotion, like a rag doll limp and loose. “Your life has been irrevocably altered, my dear. You do understand this?”

  Nodding, Alethea turned toward the fireplace, seeking warmth against the chill that stole into her heart. As far as Society was concerned, she was ruined, a fallen woman. Her reputation was worth less than a brass farthing when news of this calamity got about. And it would; make no mistake of that. The gossips, like Mrs. Dorset and that nasty Lady Alwyn-Hammond, would nose out the information like hounds after a fox. All the ton would know in a week, two if she were very fortunate. Unless… “I can go home to Ireland. I have been here almost a year. No one would think it odd that I wanted to go back to my family since I haven’t been able to find a husband.” She’d actually found one, but he wouldn’t marry her. “Once in Ireland I can say I was married, but the man died and I came back to Ireland to have the baby at home.”

  “I cannot believe that you, Alethea, who have grown up in Society all your life, could think that such a story would be believed.” Eithne gave her a glare of contempt, eyes staring, lips a thin frown. “If you weren’t the only daughter of the second wealthiest peer in all of Ireland, perhaps someone would believe it, but my dear, do you think no one in Ireland will find out? If Lord Kinnitty’s daughter comes home expecting a child, do you think no one will ask who the father is, dead or not? That they won’t write to their friends and relatives in England asking who finally managed to take the fancy of Alethea Forsythe, the girl no man could please?”