Seduced by the Scoundrel (Danger and Desire 2)

Chapter Fifteen

March 29th, 1809—Bruton Street, Mayfair, London

Light flooded out as the front door opened. Luc slowed to a stroll on the corner of Berkeley Square and watched the post-chaise drawn up at the kerb. Averil walked up the steps, paused. There was discussion, too far away for him to hear, then she and the maid went in and a pair of footmen ran down to take their bags.

She was inside, but he had expected that. How long would she stay? That was the question. If she was determined on being utterly frank with Bradon, then what would the man do? He could ship her straight back to India, he supposed, although that would involve cost and Luc suspected that the family was not given to paying cash on the nail for anything if they could avoid it. He might simply throw her out. Or he might accept her.

That would be the action of a trusting, forgiving man. Or a man who wanted Averil’s money more than he was concerned about her honour. Luc paced slowly around the periphery of the big square, past Gunther’s, past the huge old plane trees, back up the eastern side to the corner.

Well, she wasn’t out on the pavement with her bag at her feet so he should take himself off to his chambers in Albany, five minutes’ walk away, and try to be pleased about it. Best not to walk along past the house; she might be looking out and feel pursued.

Which was exactly what he was doing, although he did not want to distress her by doing so. Somehow he could not keep away. Perhaps Mere had been a mistake, or simply unkind. He had wanted to help her, make the long, fraught, journey easier. But he had also wanted to see her, touch her, steal a kiss if he could. Like an infatuated schoolboy, Luc thought with a wry twist of his mouth as he strode up the slope of Hay Hill and right into Dover Street.

Bradon would be a fool to spurn Averil. She was rich, lovely, intelligent and patently honest. He would believe her when she told him she was a virgin, surely?

Luc turned left out of Dover Street into the bustle of Piccadilly, his mood sliding towards grim. Averil was not going to be his, it was not right that she should be, and to wish that she would be forced into that position was selfish.

All right, I’m selfish. But I didn’t cast her up on the beach at Tubbs’s feet. I didn’t keep her bedridden for days. Yes, but I could have locked the damned door and slept with the men; his conscience riposted. I needn’t have slept in her bed, kissed her, shown her what lovemaking could be like, taught her desire. But I did not take her virginity, he thought. I could have done, and I did not. I could have seduced her.

It was the same conversation he’d been having with himself since he had left Plymouth. He supposed it was partly mild euphoria to blame for his reckless decision to try to find her on the London road. But the admiral had been enthusiastic about the mission, he was assured of a good reception at the Admiralty; his life, it seemed, was back on course, his honour restored. Porthington, he had been informed by a secretary with a very straight face, would be offered a posting in the West Indies. A long way away, and unhealthy with it, the man had added.

So now Luc would have more than enough to keep himself occupied until their lordships decided where to post him next. There would be work to be done to tie up the Isles of Scilly leaks, news to catch up on and the Season was in full swing. He could make an effort and start

a serious quest for a wife. And he would wait and watch Averil as she ventured into her new life, his hands outstretched to catch her if she slipped from Bradon’s grasp.

The image of Averil tumbling into his arms was enough to make his mouth curve into a smile. He walked into the cobbled forecourt of Albany, nodded to the doorman and climbed the stone stairs to his chambers to see what was awaiting him after more than two months away.

At the door he paused, hand on the knob, as a shiver ran down his spine. He was tempting fate, instinct told him—the same instinct that had saved his life at sea before now. He thought he was stepping back into his old life, but in a better, more purposeful way. But now there was someone else to consider—he was not alone any more.

She isn’t yours, he told himself and opened the door. You have to let her go. The pain was sharp, just as he knew it would be if he was ever careless enough to care about someone. Too late now …

‘Hughes! Send out for a decent supper. I’m back.’

‘Miss Heydon. The earl and Lord Bradon are expecting you. Her ladyship also,’ the butler added. His eyes flickered over her travel-stained, borrowed gown, the two small valises, Grace’s dumpy figure. ‘This way, if you please. The family is in the—’

‘I would not dream of going to them in my dirt,’ Averil said. ‘Perhaps someone could show me to my room and have hot water sent up. And please tell the family that I will be with them directly.’

The butler’s gaze sharpened into something like respect. ‘Very good, Miss Heydon. This is your woman?’

‘Waters is my dresser, yes. When I have something other than borrowed garments, that is,’ she added. ‘Doubtless there is a room for her?’

‘Yes, Miss Heydon. John, show Miss Heydon to the Amber suite. Peters, water at once and have Mrs Gifford send one of the girls up to assist Waters.’

‘Thank you.’ Averil straightened her shoulders, sent a firm message to her wobbly knees and followed the footman up the stairs. Start as you mean to go on, she told herself. And being intimidated by the upper servants would not be a good beginning. Nor would appearing before her future mother-in-law looking like a hoyden.

‘‘Strewth, miss,’ Grace said as the footman left. ‘It’s a bit grand, isn’t it?’

‘Indeed, yes.’ Averil turned on her heel to admire the heavy golden-brown hangings, the tassels, the gilt-framed pictures, the marble overmantel. None of it was new, she could see that, and all of it, in her honest opinion, needed some loving care. It was not exactly shabby, but it was definitely worn.

Hot water came with exemplary speed, brought by a pretty maid with freckles who confided that she was Alice and would Miss Heydon like a cup of tea?

‘We both would,’ Averil said firmly as Grace attacked her dusty hem with a clothes brush. A large glass of wine would be even better, she thought as she washed her hands and face and began to unpin her hair. But she was going to need all her wits about her now.

‘Thank you, Rogers, I am ready now.’ The butler looked up as she came down the stairs and she congratulated herself on thinking to ask his name.

He opened a door and announced, ‘Miss Heydon, my lady.’

Averil found herself in cool, glittering elegance. White silk walls, gilt details, marble, a pale lemon-and-cream carpet that stretched like an ice flow across dark glossy floorboards towards the chairs and a sofa arranged in a conversation-piece setting at the far end.