Seduced by a Marquis (Regency Unlaced 8) Read online

  Regency Unlaced 8

  Seduced by a Marquis

  By

  Carole Mortimer

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 2016 Carole Mortimer

  Cover Design Copyright © Glass Slipper Designs

  Editor: Linda Ingmanson

  Formatter: Matthew Mortimer

  ISBN: 978-1-910597-41-5 ePub

  ISBN: 978-1-910597-40-8 mobi

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved.

  DEDICATIONS

  My Wonderful Family

  Chapter 1

  March 1818

  Masefield House, London.

  “God, these events are tedious in the extreme!” Lysander dropped down heavily into an armchair.

  “I must say, you have quickly settled into the title and role of the Marquis of Trent,” his half brother, Sebastian, the Duke of Stowmont, observed dryly. The two of them were sitting with four other gentlemen in the library of their host for the evening, Lord Masefield, having briefly escaped the crowded ballroom to avail themselves of a glass or two of that gentleman’s excellent brandy.

  Lysander had not wanted the title of marquis in the first place. Now that he’d had possession of it for three months, he found it to be as much of a burden as he had imagined it might be, from having observed all the demands made upon Sebastian’s time once he became a duke.

  Society had been slowly migrating back to the city for several weeks now, but the Season had only begun in earnest this past week. Already Lysander found himself bored beyond endurance at meeting the same people at every social event, so God knows how he would feel in three months’ time when the Season thankfully came to an end.

  As for the eager young debutants and their enthusiastic mamas… None of those ladies would have given him as much as the time of day six months ago, when he was only Mr. Lysander Falkner, the Duke of Stowmont’s private secretary. Now they fawned and flirted and flattered the Marquis of Trent to a nauseating degree.

  Was it any wonder he had very quickly become hardened and cynical?

  Oh, the title had some plusses, to be sure. Eligibility and easy entrance to all the gentleman’s clubs in London, hitherto denied him. An invitation to every social event on the calendar. His own estate in Warwickshire, a London town house, carriages and horses, and servants to run the former and grooms to care for the latter. He also had a fortune at his disposal.

  Most gentlemen would believe themselves to be rolling in clover.

  Lysander was not most gentlemen. He was the illegitimate son born to Mrs. Angelique Falkner, a woman who had scandalized Society three and thirty years ago when she had a brief affair with a man married to an invalid wife he could not abandon or divorce without appearing the biggest bastard in all of London. As if having an affair at all did not already make him that!

  As soon as Angelique learned of her pregnancy she had chosen to end the affair. She had then taken herself off to the country, given birth to her second son alone, and remained there ever since.

  Lysander had always assumed his mother had been abandoned by his father after she informed him of the child she was expecting. It was only recently Angelique had told Lysander that had not been the case. Unable to bear putting her married lover in such an untenable position, Angelique had kept the knowledge of the pregnancy from him. But as the Duke of Landingham’s wife had recently died, Angelique now felt the time was right to inform the duke of his son’s existence.

  For Lysander to suddenly learn, at the age of two and thirty, not only was his father very much alive and a duke, but that Lysander was his only son and heir, had been a hard pill to swallow.

  Even more astounding, the now widowed duke had legitimized his son when he belatedly married Lysander’s mother three months ago—three and thirty years belated—causing such a scandal in Society, the gossip now followed Lysander wherever he went.

  Unfortunately, not enough to discourage those eager mamas and their female offspring!

  Lysander sincerely wished his mother and father well in their marriage, had seen the deep love they felt for each other. But he was not particularly pleased with either of them at the moment for having disrupted his life in this way.

  “I used you as my example, Seb,” he answered his brother dryly. “Along with a smattering of all of you,” he observed to the other four gentlemen in the room.

  “Glad to be of assistance,” the Duke of Blackmoor drawled in the uninterested voice he had perfected to a fine art and which Lysander had also mastered these past three months to a slightly lesser degree.

  “Certainly.” The Marquis of Oxbridge nodded.

  “You have only to ask,” Viscount Brooketon mocked.

  “Any time, Trent,” the widowed Earl of Latham offered, brother-in-law to Blackmoor. “As the only other unmarried gentleman in the room, I know it can be the very devil avoiding the Society ladies once they set their minds on leading you to the altar.”

  Lysander sighed his frustration. “It seems to me that four of you gentlemen have already married the only ladies present here this evening worth looking at.”

  “Not that again!” His brother gave him a scowl. “You were only half in love with Tia, whereas I was and am completely and utterly in love with her. As she is in love with me,” he added with obvious relish for the ways in which he and his wife enjoyed their love for each other.

  That Sebastian spoke the truth only made the comment all the more irritating. Lysander’s sister-in-law, Tia, was beautiful and feisty, and outspoken in a way that was very entertaining. It was true Lysander had once harbored hopes of his own in that direction, but it quickly became obvious Tia preferred his arrogant older brother. Besides which, Lysander was to become a doting uncle to their son or daughter in six months’ time.

  “How soon before I can politely make my excuses and leave?” He threw the question out to all the gentleman in the room.

  “I see no reason why you need be polite about it,” Blackmoor dismissed.

  “Bit early as yet,” Brooketon advised.

  “Maybe in half an hour or so.” Latham nodded.

  “Sounds about right,” Oxbridge drawled.

  “Tia will not be pleased if you leave without first dancing with her,” Sebastian warned.

  Lysander was willing to stay for half an hour and no more. Any longer than that and he feared his newly acquired cynicism might cause him to do or say something unforgivable.

  “Now remember what I told you,” Sir Arthur Reynolds hissed. “The new Marquis of Trent is not used to the ways and wiles of Society as yet. Which makes him an easy dupe to be ensnared by your obvious beauty.”

  It was difficult for Bella to maintain the smile curving her lips for the sake of any observing the two of them in the crowded ballroom, when her brother’s fingers were gripping her arm so tightly, they were sure to leave bruises tomorrow. “He is also the younger brother of the Duke of Stowmont,” she reminded him. “And everyone knows to beware of arousing that gentleman’s displeasure.”

  “You will have ensnared Trent long before the duke even realizes it,” Arthur dismissed. “After which, I very much doubt he will want to admit the indiscretion to his haughty older brother,” he added with satisfaction.

  Bella shook her head. “I do not want to do this anymore.”

  “Did I ask what you wanted?”

  No. But then he never had. T
en years her senior, Arthur had been guardian to Bella and her now fifteen-year-old sister, Esther, since their parents perished in a boating accident five years ago. Five years of hell, as far as Bella was concerned.

  “At one and twenty I am growing too old for this.” Not just too old but also weary. She was so very, very weary of duping gentlemen whose only crime was to have an eye for a pretty woman and far too much money at their disposal. Bella had long ago accepted beauty could be a curse as well as a blessing.

  “It is true you are past the first flush of youth,” Arthur agreed cruelly. “Esther will be sixteen at the start of next Season and old enough to take your place—”

  “No!” Bella no longer cared about keeping up appearances as she turned to confront her brother. “I will not allow you to use Esther in the way you have used me all these years. To ruin her life in the way you have ruined mine.”

  “You will not allow…?” Arthur repeated softly, his handsome features having sharpened in warning.

  Bella realized her mistake the moment she saw the coldness in his eyes, knowing it boded ill for someone. And that someone would in all probability be her. As she knew to her cost, Arthur was not opposed to administering the odd beating with a strap if he felt so inclined.

  He rarely needed to use it nowadays, knew exactly how to ensure her obedience without resorting to physical chastisement. As he had just now, he simply mentioned the sweet and innocent Esther.

  It was for her sister’s sake Bella had carried out her brother’s instruction all these years. She dare not do any other, when Arthur had made it clear to her he would throw her out of her home in disgrace and ensure she never saw Esther again if she did not do as he instructed. Esther would then take her place as the lure to his trap. Bella knew that as legal guardian to both his sisters, Arthur was more than capable of carrying out such a threat.

  She gave a pained frown. “The longer you continue to do this, the more likely you are to be found out.”

  “And until that occurs, you will continue to do as you are told!”

  “Perhaps we will find the marquis is not partial to fair-haired ladies.” She tried again to discourage him.

  “Then it is up to you to ensure you are the exception.” Arthur looked about the crowded ballroom. “Now, where has he disappear to, I wonder.”

  “Perhaps he has already left,” Bella suggested hopefully.

  She and Arthur had arrived in town only four days ago, mainly because they could not afford the rent on a London house for any longer than the latter three months of the Season. As such, Bella had not as yet had opportunity to observe the new Marquis of Trent. Although the young ladies she had heard gossiping in the retiring room earlier this evening had all talked and gushed enthusiastically about how handsome the new marquis was.

  Unfortunately, it was well known that a title and fortune could render even the plainest gentleman handsome.

  Even her brother, so far unwed and without a fortune, did possess the title along with the Reynolds estate. This ensured Arthur had his own share of ladies willing to fawn over him each Season. What none of those ladies, or their equally eager parents, realized was that Arthur had a gaming addiction which was constantly in need of funds; a single fortune brought to him by a wife’s dowry would not suffice in satisfying that addiction for long.

  The Marquis of Trent could be bald, fat, over forty, with the teeth of a rabbit, and still be considered handsome if he had a fortune to accompany the title. She knew Arthur would have ensured the marquis did indeed possess that fortune before he had even bothered to make that gentleman’s acquaintance.

  “Ah, there he is,” Arthur murmured with satisfaction.

  Bella followed his gaze to where six gentlemen had just entered the ballroom. She knew four of them by sight and their wives to exchange pleasantries with. The fifth man was the Earl of Latham, a widowed gentleman uniquely distinctive in that his hair, unlike the vibrant red of his sister’s, the Duchess of Blackmoor, was a dark and burnished auburn.

  All five of these titled gentlemen were the cream of Society.

  And not one of them suffered fools lightly, which meant that the sixth gentleman, the Marquis of Trent, was not a fool. Perhaps her brother should have taken into account not just Trent’s brother but also the company the marquis kept before setting his greedy sights on that gentleman.

  Bella’s breath stilled in her throat the moment she looked closely at the marquis. He was not bald. Or fat. Nor over forty. And his teeth were very white and perfectly straight as he laughed at something one of the other gentlemen said to him.

  Aged perhaps one or two and thirty, he was very tall. His hair was the muted color of gold in the candlelight, and his eyes the blue of the sky in summer. His sculpted features were those of a fallen angel: arched brows, those blue eyes, high cheekbones, a sharp blade of a nose, sensuous lips, and a square and determined jaw. He also had very wide shoulders, a tapered waist, powerful hips, and long and muscular legs, and looked perfectly splendid in his black evening clothes and snowy-white linen.

  For once, the twittering debutants had been perfectly correct in their observations in regard to Lysander Falkner, the Marquis of Trent. He was without a doubt one of the most handsome men Bella had ever set eyes upon.

  And Arthur expected her to seduce and compromise him as she had been forced to seduce and compromise so many others over the years, for the sole purpose of Arthur blackmailing them into paying for his silence. Any offer for Bella’s hand in marriage instead of the threatened scandal would be refused.

  Arthur always chose his victims carefully, knowing those men would rather pay him what he asked in order to avoid the scandal he threatened if they did not. That secrecy was also the reason none in Society but those who had been blackmailed were aware of Arthur’s behavior, or the part Bella played in that blackmail.

  This was the way Arthur chose to satisfy his many creditors for his losses at the gaming tables. Not through an advantageous marriage of his own, or hard work, but by making a whore of his own sister.

  “I hoped I would see you here this evening, Trent.”

  “Reynolds.” Having been relishing his departure once he had danced with his sister-in-law, Lysander did not welcome Reynolds’ intrusion. The two men had been introduced at his club only yesterday. The fellow seemed amiable enough, but Lysander did not know him well enough as yet to have decided whether or not he liked him.

  The same could not be said for the beautiful woman standing at Sir Arthur’s side.

  His wife, perhaps?

  Somewhat taller than many of the other ladies present this evening, she wore her hair, an abundance of golden curls, at her crown, with several enticing tendrils at her temples and nape. Eyes of the unusual shade of violets dominated a face of extraordinary beauty: delicate brows, creamy smooth cheeks, a pert nose, her lips a perfect and sensual bow. Her figure was shown to advantage in a gown of the exact unusual shade of her eyes, the rounded neckline allowing the fullness of her breasts to spill temptingly over the tightness of the bodice.

  It astounded Lysander that a woman might show off such an abundance of bared breasts and yet it was positively scandalous for her to reveal her ankles in the same manner. He had never met any man who would choose to gaze upon a woman’s ankles when her breasts were so clearly on display.

  “May I introduce my sister, Miss Isabella Reynolds,” Sir Arthur continued warmly. “Isabella, I would like you to meet a new acquaintance of mine, Lord Lysander Falkner, the Marquis of Trent.”

  Lysander affected a polite bow. “Miss Reynolds.”

  “My lord.” She curtseyed, fair lashes lowered demurely over those glorious eyes.

  Lysander found himself wishing to see those eyes again. “Are you enjoying the ball, Miss Reynolds?”

  She continued to look down at her gloved hands. “Very much, my lord.”

  Lysander felt a return of his earlier irritation in the library, this time because of Isabella Reynolds’s continu
ed refusal to look at him. Perhaps she was one of the few people brave enough to think that a title and fortune did not make up for his previous illegitimacy. If that was so, then she was the first person in Society to dare to show that opinion to his face.

  He gave a hard smile at the thought of the perfect opportunity to fan the flame of that disapproval: a gentleman, he had learned, had to find his amusement wherever he might. “Would you care to dance, Miss Reynolds?”

  Bella drew her breath in sharply, knowing what Arthur expected her answer to the marquis to be.

  But having now spoken to that gentleman, viewed him up close and marveled anew at how singularly handsome he was, she simply could not do as Arthur wished. The marquis had not done anything to deserve such duplicity, except possess more money than Arthur. “Having only just eaten supper, I would prefer not to. But thank you for asking, my lord. If you gentlemen will excuse me?” She gave another curtsey, avoiding so much as glancing at Arthur as she walked away. She did not need to do so to know her brother would be furious with her.

  She did not glance back until she had joined several of her friends she had seen standing together in conversation across the ballroom.

  Arthur, as predicted, was red-faced with temper, although he was trying to hide the emotion as he continued to converse with the other man as if nothing untoward had happened. Bella only knew how angry her brother was because she recognized that flush in his cheeks, the tightly clenched jaw, and the narrowed brown eyes. The latter promised retribution for her defiance once they had returned home to their rented accommodation later this evening.