To Seduce a Sinner Read online

  Melisande rounded a corner and mounted the stairs. Since Timothy, she’d had few suitors and none of them serious. Harold and Gertrude had probably long resigned themselves to her living with them for the rest of her natural life. She was grateful that they had never shown any aversion to her constant company. Unlike many spinsters, she’d not been made to feel a burden or out of place.

  In the upper hall, her room was the first around a curve to the right. She shut the door, and Mouse, her little terrier, jumped onto the bed. He turned three times, then lay down on the counterpane and looked at her.

  “An exhausting day for you as well, Sir Mouse?” Melisande inquired.

  The dog tilted his head at her voice, his black bead eyes alert, his button ears—one white, the other brown—pricked forward. The fire was burning low in the grate, and she used a taper to light several candles around the small bedroom. The room was sparsely furnished, yet each piece was chosen carefully. The bed was narrow, but the delicately carved posts were a rich, golden brown. The counterpane was a plain white, but the sheets hidden underneath were made of the finest silk. There was only one chair in front of the fireplace, but the arms were gilt, the seat richly embroidered in gold and purple. This was her refuge from the world. The place where she could simply be herself.

  Melisande went to her desk and contemplated the pile of papers there. She was nearly done with the fairy-tale translation, but—

  A knock sounded at her door. Mouse sailed off the bed and barked wildly at the door as if marauders were without.

  “Hush.” Melisande toed him aside and opened the door.

  A maid stood outside. She bobbed a curtsy. “Please, miss, might I have a word with you?”

  Melisande raised her brows and nodded, stepping back from the door. The girl eyed Mouse, who was grumbling under his breath, and made a wide berth around the dog.

  Shutting the door, Melisande looked at the maid. She was a pretty girl, with gold curls and fresh, pink cheeks, and she wore a rather elegant green printed calico gown. “Sally, isn’t it?”

  The maid bobbed again. “Yes, mum, Sally from downstairs. I heard . . .” She gulped, squeezed her eyes shut, and said very quickly, “I heard that you’ll be marrying Lord Vale, ma’am, and if you do that, you’ll be leaving this house and going to live with him, and then you’ll be a viscountess, ma’am, and if you’re a viscountess, ma’am, then you’ll be needing a proper lady’s maid, because viscountesses have to have their hair and clothes just so, and begging your pardon, ma’am, but they’re not just so right now. Not”—her eyes widened, as if fearing she’d just insulted Melisande—“not that there’s anything wrong with your clothes or hair right now, but they’re not, not—”

  “Exactly like that of a viscountess,” Melisande said dryly.

  “Well, no, ma’am, if you don’t mind me saying so, ma’am. And what I wanted to ask—and I’ll be ever so grateful if you let me, truly I will, you won’t be a wit disappointed, ma’am—is if you’d take me with you as your lady’s maid?”

  Sally’s flow of words stopped abruptly. She simply stared, eyes and mouth wide, as if Melisande’s next words would decide her very fate.

  Which well they might, since the difference in station between a downstairs maid and a lady’s maid was considerable. Melisande nodded. “Yes.”

  Sally blinked. “Ma’am?”

  “Yes. You may go with me as my lady’s maid.”

  “Oh!” Sally’s hands flew up and it seemed she might grasp Melisande’s in gratitude, but then she must have thought better of it and merely waved them excitedly in the air. “Oh! Oh, thank you, ma’am! Oh, thank you! You’ll not regret it, really you won’t. I’ll be the best lady’s maid you ever did see, just you watch.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Melisande opened the door again. “We can discuss your duties more thoroughly in the morning. Good night.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. Good night, ma’am.”

  Sally bobbed into the hall, did a half-turn, bobbed again, and was still bobbing as Melisande shut the door.

  “She seems a nice enough girl,” she said to Mouse.

  Mouse snorted and leaped back onto the bed.

  Melisande tapped him on the nose, then crossed to her dresser. A plain tin snuffbox sat on top. She briefly brushed the battered surface with her fingertips before taking out the button from where she’d hidden it in her sleeve. The silver V winked in the candlelight as she contemplated it.

  She’d loved Jasper Renshaw for six long, long years. It must’ve been shortly after he’d returned to England that she’d attended the party where she’d met him. He hadn’t noticed her, of course. His blue-green eyes had drifted over her head as they were introduced, and shortly afterward, he’d excused himself to flirt with Mrs. Redd, a notorious and notoriously beautiful widow. Melisande had watched from the side of the ball, sitting next to a line of elderly ladies, as he’d thrown his head back and laughed with complete abandon. His neck had been strong, his mouth opened wide with mirth. He was a captivating sight, but she probably would’ve dismissed him after that as a silly, feckless aristocrat if not for what had happened several hours later.

  It was after midnight, and she’d long since grown tired of the festivities. In fact, she would’ve gone home if it wouldn’t have spoiled her friend Lady Emeline’s pleasure. Emeline had bullied her into attending, for it had been over a year since the fiasco with Timothy, and Melisande’s spirits were still low. But the noise, the heat and press of bodies, and the staring of strangers had become unbearable, and Melisande had drifted away from the ballroom. She thought she’d gone in the direction of the ladies’ retiring room, until she’d heard male voices. She should’ve turned back then, crept away down the dark corridor, but one of the male voices had risen, had seemed to be weeping, in fact, and curiosity had gotten the better of her. She’d peered around a corner and had witnessed . . . well, a tableau.

  A young man she’d never seen before leaned against a wall at the end of the corridor. He wore a white wig, beneath which was a pale and smoothly flawless complexion, save for the ruddy color in his cheeks. He was beautiful, but his head was flung back, his eyes closed, his face the picture of despair. In one hand, he grasped a bottle of wine. Next to him was Lord Vale, but a completely different Lord Vale than the man who’d spent three hours flirting and laughing in the ballroom. This Lord Vale was silent and still and listening.

  Listening to the other man weep.

  “They used to come to me only in my dreams, Vale,” the young man cried. “Now they come even when I wake. I see a face in a crowd, and I imagine it a Frenchie or one of those savages, come to take my scalp. I know ’tisn’t so, but I can’t convince myself. Last sennight, I struck my valet and knocked him down just because he startled me. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if it will end. I can’t rest!”

  “Hush,” Vale murmured, almost as a mother would a child. His eyes were sad, his mouth twisted down. “Hush. It’ll end. I promise you, it’ll end.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I was there, too, wasn’t I?” Vale answered. With one hand, he took the bottle gently from the other man’s hand. “I survived and so will you. You must be strong.”

  “But do you see the demons?” the young man whispered.

  Vale closed his eyes as if in pain. “It’s best to ignore them. Turn your mind to lighter, more wholesome images. Don’t dwell on the morbid and hellish thoughts. They’ll capture your mind if you do and will pull you down with them.”

  The other man sagged against the wall. He still looked unhappy, but his brow was clearing. “You understand me, Vale. No one else does.”

  A footman came from the other end of the hall and caught Lord Vale’s eye. Lord Vale nodded.

  “Your carriage is already waiting. This man will show you the way.” Lord Vale placed his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Go home and rest. On the morrow, I shall call ’round, and we shall go riding in Hyde Park togeth
er, my friend.”

  The young man sighed and let himself be led away by the footman.

  Lord Vale stared after them until they disappeared around the corner. Then he tilted his head back and drank a long swallow from the bottle of wine.

  “Goddamn it,” he muttered when he lowered the bottle, and his wide mouth twisted in pain or another less understandable emotion. “Goddamn it to hell.”

  And he turned and strode away.

  A half hour later, she saw Lord Vale again. He was in the ballroom, slyly whispering in Mrs. Redd’s ear, and Melisande would never have believed this careless rogue the same man who had comforted his friend, if she had not seen it herself. But she had seen it, and she’d known. Despite Timothy and the hard lessons learned about love, grief, and loss, she’d known. Here was a man who kept his secrets as close as she did her own. Here was a man she would fall helplessly—hopelessly—in love with.

  For six years, she’d loved him, though she knew he did not know her. She’d stood and watched as Emeline became engaged to Lord Vale, and she hadn’t turned a hair. After all, what use was mourning when the man would never be hers? She’d watched as he’d engaged himself again to the insipid Mary Templeton, and she’d been serene—at least on the outside. But when she’d realized in that church yesterday that Mary had actually thrown Lord Vale over, something wild and uncontrollable had risen up in her breast. Why not? it’d cried. Why not try and claim him?

  And so she had.

  Melisande tilted the button until the candlelight flashed off its polished surface. She would have to be very, very careful how she proceeded with Lord Vale. Love, as she so well knew, was her Achilles’ heel. Not by word or deed must she let him know how she really felt. Melisande opened the snuffbox and placed the button carefully inside.

  She undressed and extinguished the candles before climbing into bed. Holding the covers up, she let Mouse bustle underneath. The bed trembled as he turned around and then lay down, his smooth, warm back against her calves.

  Melisande stared into the darkness. Soon she would be sharing her bed with more than little Mouse. Would she be able to lie with Jasper without revealing her terrible love? She shivered at the question and closed her eyes to sleep.

  ONE WEEK LATER, Jasper drew his matched grays to a halt in front of Mr. Harold Fleming’s town house and sprang down from his phaeton. His new phaeton. It was tall and elegant, had cost an extravagant amount of money, and the wheels were absolutely enormous. He was rather looking forward to driving Miss Fleming to an afternoon musicale. He wasn’t looking forward to the musicale itself, of course, but he supposed one must end up somewhere when driving a phaeton.

  Tilting his tricorne at a jaunty angle, he bounded up the steps and knocked. Ten minutes later, he was cooling his heels in a rather boring library while he waited for his fiancée to appear. He’d actually seen this library only four days before when he’d called upon Mr. Fleming to discuss the marriage settlement. That had been an entirely tedious three hours, brightened only by the fact that Miss Fleming had been quite right: She did indeed have an excellent dowry. Miss Fleming herself had not appeared once during his visit. Not that she was required for the business meeting—in fact, it was usual for the lady involved to be absent—but her presence would’ve been a welcome break.

  Jasper strolled the library and inspected the shelves. The books seemed to be all in Latin, and he was just wondering if Mr. Fleming actually read everything in Latin or if he’d bought the books by the crate at a booksellers when Miss Fleming entered the room, drawing on her gloves. He hadn’t seen her since that morning in the vestry, but she wore nearly the same expression: a look of mingled determination and faint disapproval. Oddly, he found the expression rather charming.

  Jasper bowed with a flourish. “Ah, my dear, you are as winsome as the breeze on a sunny summer’s day. That frock enshrines your beauty like gold does a ruby ring.”

  She tilted her head. “I believe your simile is not quite correct. My dress is not gold-colored, and I am not a ruby.”

  Jasper widened his smile, showing more teeth. “Ah, but I have no doubt that your virtue will prove you a ruby among women.”

  “I see.” Her mouth twitched, whether in irritation or amusement it was hard to tell. “You know, I’ve never understood why there isn’t a similar passage in the Bible instructing husbands.”

  He tsked. “Careful. You come perilously close to blasphemy. Besides, are not husbands universally virtuous?”

  She humphed. “And how do you explain my dress that is not gold?”

  “It may not be gold, but the color is, ah . . .” And here he rather unfortunately ran out of ideas, because, in fact, the frock Miss Fleming wore was the color of horse dung.

  Miss Fleming slowly arched an eyebrow.

  Jasper clasped her gloved hand and bent over it, inhaling the spicy orange scent of Neroli water as he thought for something to say. All he could think was that the sensuous Neroli scent was in sharp contrast to her plain gown. It did stimulate his brain, however, because when he rose, he smiled charmingly and said, “The color of your frock reminds me of a wild and stormy cliff.”

  Miss Fleming’s eyebrow remained arched skeptically. “Indeed?”

  Damnable girl. He tucked her hand in his elbow. “Yes.”

  “How so?”

  “It is an exotic and mysterious color.”

  “I thought it was plain brown.”

  “Nay.” He widened his eyes in feigned shock. “Never say ‘plain brown.’ Ash or oak or tea or fawn or perhaps even squirrel-colored, but certainly not brown.”

  “Squirrel-colored?” She looked at him sideways as he led her down the steps. “Is that a compliment, my lord?”

  “I believe so,” he said. “I have certainly tried my best to make it so. But it might depend on how one feels about squirrels.”

  They had halted in front of his phaeton, and she was frowning up at the seat. “Squirrels are rather pretty sometimes.”

  “There, you see. Definitely a compliment.”

  “Silly man,” she murmured, and gingerly placed a foot on the wooden steps set before the phaeton.

  “Allow me.” He grasped her elbow to steady her as she climbed into the carriage, conscious that he could wrap his fingers all the way about her arm—the bones beneath her flesh were delicate and thin. He felt her stiffen as she settled, and it occurred to him that she might be nervous sitting so high. “Hold on to the side. There’s nothing to be worried about, and Lady Eddings’s house isn’t far.”

  That earned him a scowl. “I’m not afraid.”

  “Of course not,” he called as he rounded the carriage and climbed in. He could feel her body, stiff and still beside him as he took the ribbons and started the horses. One of her hands lay limply in her lap, but the other grasped the carriage’s side tightly. Whatever she might say, his fiancée was indeed wary of the carriage. He felt a twinge of tenderness for her. She was such a prickly thing, she must hate to show weakness.

  “I think you are very fond of squirrels,” he said to distract her.

  A line knit itself between her brows. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you wear it so often—that squirrel color. I have deduced from your fondness for squirrel-colored gowns that you are fond of the animal itself. Perhaps you had a pet squirrel as a child, and it ran about the house, upsetting the maids and your nanny.”

  “What a flight of fancy,” she said. “The color is brown, as you well know, and I don’t know if I’m fond of brown, but I am used to it.”

  He snuck a look at her. She was frowning at his hands handling the ribbons. “They wear it so they can’t be seen.”

  She tore her gaze from his hands and looked at him rather bemusedly. “You’ve lost me, my lord.”

  “The squirrels again, I’m afraid. I am sorry, but if you don’t start another topic, I shall probably babble about them all the way to the musicale. Squirrels are squirrel-colored because squirrel color is hard to
see in a forest. I wonder if that’s why you wear it as well.”

  “So that I might hide in a forest?” Her smile was definite this time.

  “Perhaps. Perhaps you want to flit from tree to tree in a shadowed forest, eluding both beast and poor, poor man. What do you think?”

  “I think you don’t know me very well.”

  And he turned and looked at her as she stared back at him, amused, but with her hand still tightly gripped on the carriage’s side. “No, I suppose you’re right.”

  He did want to know her, though, he realized, this vexing creature who refused to show fear.

  “Are you happy with the arrangements your brother and I came to?” he asked. The first banns had been called yesterday, and they would be married in another three weeks. Many ladies would not like such a short engagement. “I must tell you that we tussled long and hard. At one point, I thought our men of business would come to fisticuffs. Fortunately, your brother averted the crisis with the quick application of tea and muffins.”

  “Oh, dear, poor Harold.”

  “Poor Harold indeed, but what about me?”

  “You are obviously a saint among men.”

  “I am glad you realize it,” he said. “And the arrangements?”

  “I am content with them,” she replied.

  “Good.” He cleared his throat. “I should tell you that I’ll be leaving town tomorrow.”

  “Oh?” Her tone was still even, but the hand in her lap had fisted.

  “Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. I’ve been the recipient of letters from my land steward for weeks now. He informs me that my presence is desperately needed to settle some type of dispute. I can ignore them no longer. I suspect,” he confided, “that Abbott, my neighbor, has again let his tenants build on my land. He does it every decade or so—tries to expand his border. The man’s eighty if he’s a day, and he’s been doing it for half a century. Used to drive my pater mad.”