Adrienne Basso - How To Seduce A Sinner

Dorothea was frustrated with what she felt was the unnatural state of her marriage, especially at this early stage. She and Carter ran their lives on a parallel but separate course.

Within a few days, Dorothea grew tired of the endless social whirl. It was simply not as entertaining without Carter by her side. She toyed briefly with the idea of forsaking the parties and staying home at night, but feared she would become lonely shut away in her rooms with only a book or her embroidery to keep her company.

Unfortunately she was not even allowed to suffer this neglect in privacy, for these antics did not go unnoticed by the duke. Dorothea might have limited contact with her imposing father-in-law, yet it seemed every time she did see him he was quick to offer an unwanted comment.

Tonight was no exception. As she reached the landing on the center staircase, the duke appeared from the opposite wing. Dorothea blinked. Had he been lying in wait for her? It seemed so blatantly absurd, and yet his timing was too perfect for this to be mere happenstance.

“Where are you off to tonight?” the duke asked.

Dorothea tried to ignore his scrutinizing glare, but it was difficult. She always squirmed so desperately inside when he studied her, for it felt as if he was judging her, measuring her worth. Measuring and concluding she was worth very little.

“Lady Halifax is hosting a charity ball at Almack’s.”

“Will my son be there?”

“Probably not. He has no great affection for Lady Halifax or her charitable efforts.”

One corner of the duke’s mouth eased slightly upward. Most would consider it a hint of a smile. Dorothea knew better.

“Who is your escort?” he wanted to know.

“The major.”

“Again? I vow you see more of him than your husband.”

She snapped her gaze up to his, trembling, yet determined to hide the wound inflicted by the truth of his words. “That is hardly my choice.”

The duke grunted with impatience. “A clever woman knows how to keep a man by her side. And in her bed. I want to hold my heir in my arms before I die, young lady.”

“Then I advise you to watch your health most carefully, Your Grace, to ensure that you live for many, many years.” Reaching down, Dorothea gathered the skirt of her gown by her fingertips and held it above her evening slippers to prevent herself from tripping. The gesture also helped conceal the trembling of her hands. “Now, if you will excuse me, I’m certain the major has arrived. I do not wish to be rude and keep him waiting.”

Dismissing the duke, she moved past him, ignoring the prickling sensation she felt on the nape of her neck. She glided down the main staircase gracefully, her head high, her back straight. Roddy, bless his heart, was indeed waiting in the front foyer and she practically fell into his arms.

She heard the duke’s deep, commanding voice call to her, but she kept moving, her mind focused on escaping. For a few hours at least, she was determined to forget the unhappy state of her circumstances.

Major Roddington’s heels clicked on the polished marbled floor as he paced impatiently in the foyer. He had been told Lady Atwood would be down shortly and been asked to wait. Normally he wouldn’t have minded, but being kept out of the private rooms of this particular house gnawed at his gut. It was a stark reminder of how he had failed to complete his task, of how the passing of time was only making this more difficult, more challenging.

Lady Atwood suddenly appeared, a tight smile of greeting on her face. Above her, Roddy could hear a voice of masculine discontent.

“Is that Lord Atwood shouting at you?” he asked.

“No, it’s the duke.”

She gestured toward a footman, who held out a silk evening cloak, but Roddy was no longer paying attention to her. At the sound of that same, low masculine voice, his head swung toward the landing and he felt a sudden, quick explosion of emotions. Close. He was so close.

He glanced up. At the sight of the elderly man clutching the banister with outstretched arms and frowning with such clear disapproval, a coldness like he had never felt seeped into Roddy’s bones. Oh, he had seen the duke before, but always from a great distance or in a very crowded room. This was the first time since he was a lad of fifteen that he had been so near the all-powerful Duke of Hansborough.

The temptation was almost too great. Yet Roddy straightened, his inner discipline overtaking his impulsive inclination to rush up the staircase and have his say. Now was not the time for confrontation.

“He sounds angry,” Roddy commented.

“I believe that is his normal tone.” She tugged on her evening gloves and hastened toward the door. “Shall we?”

Roddy’s eyes narrowed. He had come to know a bit about Dorothea over these last few days and he found her to be a pleasant, congenial woman. Her stiff, formal reticence was clearly out of character and obviously caused by the duke.

He escorted her silently from the house and assisted her into the carriage, then waited until the vehicle had rounded the corner before speaking. “Did you have a disagreement with the duke?”

She glanced over at him, her face pale in the moonlight. “His Grace finds much at fault with me. I fear the only way I shall ever gain his true approval is to present him with a grandson.”

She blushed and Roddy realized she felt embarrassed at discussing something so intensely personal with a man who was not her husband. It made him feel like a real cad for even bringing the subject up.

“Well, I hope you present him with a whole pack of boys, each as sour-tempered as his grandfather.”

She smiled, as he intended, and they let the matter drop. But the incident made Roddy start to wonder. Where was Atwood tonight? Why wasn’t he there to defend his bride, to shelter her from the duke’s barbs?

They were newly married, yet as far as Roddy could tell, Atwood spent most of his time away from his wife. He had seen him at Tattersall’s yesterday, the boxing club the day before, and a local gaming hell last night.

He knew it was society’s way for married couples to live separate lives, but this seemed to drift beyond acceptable standards. Roddy gritted his teeth and gazed out the window, deciding this was yet another prime example of how the wealthy, spoiled aristocracy did not appreciate the real treasures in their lives.

“I’m for home,” Benton announced as he threw down his losing hand of cards.

Peter Dawson smiled in appreciation and raked in the substantial pile of coins. “Are you sure you won’t play one more round?”

“No. I wish to leave before my pockets are totally empty.” Benton turned to Carter. “And what of you, Atwood? Are you done for the night? Ready to go home at last to your lovely bride?”

Carter felt his jaw twitch. It was uttered in jest, but the barb struck at the heart. Though nothing directly had been said, Carter knew his friends wondered why he was not at home with his wife, but instead spending all of his evenings, and most of his days, out with them.

In fact, his life was going on exactly as it had before he had married. Actually, a bit better, since he was no longer plagued by the duke to find himself a wife. So why didn’t he feel more content with the arrangement?

“Tell me, what is your opinion of love?” Carter asked.

The viscount paused in the act of putting on his coat, his expression curious. “Love of what? Drink? A new set of prime cattle? A pair of well-fitted, perfectly polished boots?”

“A woman,” Carter snorted. Perfectly polished boots, indeed.

Benton fell silent. “Dear God, don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with your wife?” he finally asked.

Carter shook his head. “No, but I fear she might fancy herself in love with me.”