A Sinful Temptation Page 2

  Rebecca sputtered a response as Lord Selward cut a swift bow, gifted her with a smile—a rather bland one that held little promise he would return any time soon—and then left. Poof. Like he’d never been there at all.

  “Do not say it,” she muttered under her breath when Mother’s gaze slowly slid her way. “Not a word.”

  Mother fixed her with a stern look. “Rebecca, dear, if that is the man you want then you are going to have to come up with a better plan than asking after his mother’s welfare to entice him into a proposal.”

  Rebecca gritted her teeth then stopped. Mrs. Dunbar had always taught her anger put lines on a lady’s face and she could not afford that at this point. “What are you suggesting, Mother?”

  Mother tilted her chin toward the group of gentlemen gathered near the tulip bed. They had been standing there for the better part of a half hour stealing glances her way. Their existence had not gone unnoticed, she simply hadn’t given it much thought. Amongst them, those that bore a title numbered only three—Lord Cranbrook (no, thank you), Lord Llewellyn (given to drink), and Viscount Pepperidge (rumored to have predilections best not spoken of in polite society). Truly, as far as choices went, they made Lord Selward appear positively stellar. He may not be the most interesting of men, but at least he was handsome, polite, and had a full head of hair. Surely those attributes would be enough to overlook his strange obsession with the weather.

  “My point being, if Lord Selward had a little competition he may stop dragging his feet and make this proposal you so eagerly seek.”

  “You mean…make him jealous?” She tried to picture Lord Selward writhing in a jealous rage, but the image would not come.

  “Sometimes,” Mother said. “A lady must do what a lady needs to in order to find the happiness she wants.”

  Happiness. This was not about happiness. If she wanted happiness, she would have pursued—

  Well. It hardly mattered. In the end, she would be happy enough if she could keep them from becoming poor relations. Marriage to Lord Selward would save her and Mother from such a fate. If she succeeded, she would consider herself lucky, and try not to be too disappointed that she had missed out on a grand love affair.

  But to make Lord Selward jealous? Would the prospect of potentially losing her truly push him to issue an offer? Perhaps. If nothing else, she must at least try. Time grew unbearably short. But what gentleman could she trust to help her with this charade?

  Her brain worked furiously, streamlining the necessary attributes she would need in such an individual. Someone believable. Someone smart enough to see the viability of her plan and be willing to help her achieve its end. Someone who could be trusted.

  Only one man came to mind, but enlisting his help would create a different set of problems. Still, desperate times called for desperate measures. And with each day bringing her closer to losing everything, she had never been more desperate.

  * * *

  Marcus Bowen stared at the papers laid out in an orderly fashion across his desk. They competed with the efficient organization of his writing implements for supremacy. His quill sat sharpened and waiting in its holder. Next to it, a full bottle of ink, and beside that, a rather ornate letter opener—a birthday gift from his employer, the Marquess of Ellesmere.

  Everything was as it should be.

  Except that it wasn’t.

  He let out a long sigh. His fifth such sigh since the clock struck half past six less than thirty minutes ago. To be truthful, he grew weary of the wispy sound and the feeling that caused it, but try as he might he could rid himself of neither.

  Restlessness was a strange beast and not one he was familiar with. At least not until recently.

  Against the wall, a large, ornate clock sat atop the mantle and mocked him with its diligent pendulum swinging back and forth in a steady rhythm. Tick-tocking away the seconds of his life, a reminder of how quickly they passed. Of how easily they could stop forever. As if the clock knew better than to believe he would do anything drastic to change. That he would take a risk and throw his carefully constructed life into chaos. The clock did not believe he had the courage to grab life by the throat and give it a good shake.

  Not him. Not the steady, dependable, Marcus Bowen.

  He gritted his teeth and glared at the clock and everything it represented.

  The light from the afternoon sun filtered in through the window of his office on the ground floor of the London home owned by Lord Ellesmere and tempted him with its warm rays. He’d opened the window earlier to allow the slight breeze to waft through the room in the hopes the fresh air would rid him of the strange melancholy that refused to leave.

  The attempt failed.

  Instead the melancholy and restlessness took hold, settled in and made themselves quite at home.

  Surprising, really. One would think after spending the past two months recovering from an all too close brush with death he would be thankful to return to his normal life of ledgers and transactions and business opportunities. And while he was most pleased to be alive and well, sitting behind his desk—sitting anywhere for that matter—after being stabbed by a band of thieves while saving the Duchess of Franklyn, he could not say he was happy.

  And it made him wonder—had he been unhappy before meeting the pointy end of the brigand’s knife? Or was this a new state that had come upon him while Lord and Lady Ellesmere hovered at his sickbed clucking and worrying that each breath he drew would be his last? Not that they had been the only ones. Spence and his new wife, Caelie, also checked in on him regularly. Even Nicholas and Abigail, ensconced in their country estate awaiting their firstborn and possible future heir to the Blackbourne title, sent regular letters and demanded daily progress reports on his health.

  He shook his head and puzzled over it, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm on the smooth surface of his mahogany desk. He should be pleased to find himself once again in his office, back at work, embracing the quiet and solitude his position as Lord Ellesmere’s man of business offered.

  Yet he didn’t. In truth, he felt no peace at all.

  The brouhaha over his injuries filled him with discomfort. Though raised as a ward of Lord and Lady Ellesmere since the age of eight, the fuss had been unnecessary.

  He was not, after all, family.

  He was an employee. A trusted employee, but still, just an employee.

  Nothing more. Nothing less.

  Despite his close friendships with Lord Ellesmere’s grandson and heir, as well as Nicholas Sheridan, Earl of Blackbourne, Marcus himself held no title, no property, no standing in society. A fact he had not anticipated would change.

  And yet.

  His gaze drifted to the documents lying just beyond the estate account books. The Duke of Franklyn’s solicitor had delivered the packet earlier that morning. The contents had been nothing short of ridiculous. An offer of Northill Hall—a small, but lucrative property—as recompense for saving the man’s wife. A wife who had been attempting to run off with her former lover when Marcus saved her.

  Hardly the thing to reward a man for. Not that it mattered. He could not accept such a generous gift. Could he?

  He certainly had the ability and wherewithal to run such an estate. He’d been overseeing Lord Ellesmere’s numerous estates for years, but something about accepting such a generous gift rubbed him the wrong way. As if it were…charity. He’d spent his childhood constantly reminded he was nothing short of a charity case. He had no desire to continue feeling that way.

  Besides, if he wanted an estate, he would buy one. He may lack a title, but he possessed a sound business sense and he had used it to his best advantage, amassing a sizeable fortune that would be the envy of many of the lords he associated with. If they only knew.

  But he had never been one to flaunt what he had. He knew how quickly it could disappear.

  “There you are.”

  Marcus turned toward the door at the sound of the familiar voice and held up a hand. “Before you
ask, I am fine.”

  Spencer Kingsley, Earl of Huntsleigh and future Marquess of Ellesmere stopped and made a face. “You could at least do me the courtesy of waiting until I ask the question, Bowen.” His friend often referred to Marcus by his last name. As boys, Spence and Nick had decided Bowen sounded much more dangerous. And given his rather serious nature, they had determined Marcus needed all the help he could get in creating a more exciting persona. Their efforts had failed, but the name had stuck.

  Marcus lowered his hand. “Fine. Ask.”

  “How are you feeling this fine day, my good man?” Spence asked in what Marcus assumed his friend thought was his best physician’s voice. “Are you experiencing any delirium or discomfort? Any desires to throw yourself in front of another knife-wielding maniac?”

  “None at all.”

  “Hm.” Spence twisted his mouth to one side as he drew closer and leaned in as if to verify this claim.

  “I assure you, I am fully recovered.”

  “As you say.” Spence straightened. “Are you certain you won’t come with us to the Abbey to rest? I’m sure Grandfather would not object.”

  “Quite certain. I do not need to convalesce and you need not continue feeling guilty. It doesn’t become you.”

  Granted, had Spence not absconded with Lord Ellesmere’s ship in an effort to avoid his former mistress and his grandfather’s marital plans—the very ship Marcus was meant to be on—perhaps he would not have been left on the dock to save Spence’s former mistress from knife-wielding thieves.

  “Really? I thought I looked quite fetching in it.”

  Marcus shook his head. “I have work to do, Spence. Your future estates are not going to run themselves, you know.”

  “Then as your future employer, I demand you take a holiday.”

  “I took a long enough holiday while convalescing.”

  “I would hardly consider knocking at Death’s door a holiday.” But Spence let the matter drop and shoved a small package toward him. “Here. This came for you last week, but in all the hubbub I forgot to give it to you.”

  Marcus took the plainly wrapped package and turned it over in his hand. It was the size of a large tome, yet not quite heavy enough to be such. He looked at the postmark. Cornwall. An unwelcomed tingling edged the walls of his belly, close to where the knife had slid into him. He shook the sensation off and returned his attention to Spence’s words.

  “What hubbub was that?”

  “It appears I am to join the ranks of fatherhood with Nick.”

  Marcus forgot about the package. His head shot up and he stared at his friend. If ever there had been a man opposed to marriage it had been the one standing in front of him. Now he was happily immersed in it and about to take the next step. Several months after the wedding, Marcus had yet to fully wrap his mind around the change.

  “A baby?”

  “Yes,” Spence said. “I believe that is what one needs in order to be considered a father.”

  “And you are…?”

  Spence lifted his arms then let them fall to slap against his thighs. “Happy. Thrilled. Terrified. I’m likely to make a complete mash of the whole thing.”

  Marcus shook his head and laughed. “I’m certain you will take to it like a dog to water.”

  “Not all dogs like water.”

  “You will be fine. Lady Huntsleigh will ensure you do not falter.”

  “Lady Huntsleigh insists you call her Caelie. You are family, after all.”

  Marcus’s smile diminished slightly. Spence’s view of family stretched beyond bloodlines, but his view did not change reality, a fact Marcus never lost sight of.

  Spence pointed to the package. “Are you going to open it? I can’t imagine what it is. Did you have family left there?”

  “No.” At least none he cared to associate with. He had left the MacCumbers behind when Lady Ellesmere whisked him away as a young boy. Why any of them would be contacting him now, he couldn’t imagine. Nor did he care. He set the package down on the desk. “Likely it is business regarding your grandfather’s estate. I will look at it later.” He changed the subject. “Is that what brought you by?”

  Spence shook his head. “Lady Berringsford’s fete is tonight. As per Nick’s instructions, we are to provide his mother and sister with an escort to the event.”

  Marcus nudged the package out of his way and reached for a ledger, flipping open the thick cover. “I can think of nothing I would like less.”

  He did not care for parties and even less for being thrust into a society where he did not belong. Nor did he care to play escort to Nick’s sister, Lady Rebecca.

  Liar.

  Spence flopped down into one of the chairs opposite the ornate desk with its neatly arranged ledgers. “Oh, come now. The ton is practically salivating to see you. You are being lauded as a great hero. A veritable knight in shining armor. No doubt all the ladies will swoon the moment you arrive at Covent Garden.”

  “More reason to stay away.” He was not a hero. He had been in the wrong place at the right time. He had acted without forethought or planning and paid the price. There had been nothing heroic about it.

  “Fine then, do it because Nick has requested it of you. I have picked up the slack while you were laid up, but as you’ve indicated, you are well now and therefore can once again assist me in protecting the lovely Lady Rebecca from any lords who think to circle around her like a dog to a juicy bone.”

  Marcus scowled. “Hardly a thrilling prospect. I’m certain you don’t need my assistance. Besides, Lady Rebecca has made it clear the only gentleman she has an interest in is Lord Selward, though why, I cannot imagine.”

  “You don’t like him?”

  “My opinion is irrelevant.” Not that he didn’t have one. The fact was, Selward had spent the better part of two Seasons dangling his interest in Lady Rebecca like a carrot in front of a horse, and now he did the same with Lord Franklyn’s daughter, Lady Susan. It was unconscionable, and for the life of him, Marcus did not know why someone of Lady Rebecca’s caliber put up with it. She could have her pick of suitors. Not that it was any of his business.

  Because it wasn’t. Nor did he plan on making it so.

  Spence picked up the rock paperweight he had given Marcus as a gift when they were children and tossed it lightly in his hand. “The heart wants what the heart wants, I suppose.”

  “Then the heart is a foolish organ that is not to be trusted.”

  “Tut, tut. Such disparaging words from the one man I know who believes marriage is a union one should strive to achieve.”

  He could not deny he had once thought marriage an advantageous union, but while he was not opposed to it, he understood the ladies of his acquaintance did not marry the son of servants.

  He turned the conversation away from him and back onto his friend. “Do you still believe it is not?”

  Spence grinned and despite the turmoil that had hounded his past, it did Marcus’s heart good to see his friend settled and happy, his demons put to rest. “I have seen the error of my ways. But you—here you are, still a bachelor. Have you considered that while fending off Lady Rebecca’s suitors you could also be trading on your newfound popularity to find yourself a suitable bride?”

  Marcus scowled. “I hardly think the ladies of the ton would set their caps for a man with no title or property.” His gaze once again drifted to the documents laying next to the ledgers.

  “All the more reason to capitalize on your hero status before people come to their senses and realize you are far too good for them. Besides, if you don’t come with me, you will have to stay behind and entertain Grandmamma and her friends.”

  Marcus froze. “Not the ladies?”

  Spence leaned back in his chair and smirked. “None other.”

  Marcus wanted to smack the triumphant expression from Spence’s face, but he was too busy reliving the last time he had been forced to spend an evening with the elderly ladies who played whist as if their very liv
es depended on the outcome of the next card. He’d been forced to play the fourth. He had been to gaming hells with less chance of bloodshed than when Lady Ellesmere and her comrades broke out the cards and claret.

  “Fine. I will attend the party with you.”

  “I thought you would see it my way. Now, I need to be off. My lovely wife has requested I bring her some of Mrs. Faraday’s ginger biscuits. She claims they settle her stomach.” He stood and set the rock down on top of the documents Marcus had gazed at only a moment before, then moved the rock aside and shot him a questioning look. “What is this?”

  Marcus gave a non-committal response. “Nothing of import.”

  Spence picked up the papers, ignoring Marcus’s protests. His eyes widened and he whistled. “He did it then. Franklyn gifted you Northill Hall. Why, you’ll be within a stone’s throw of Sheridan Park and Lakefield Abbey. It’s perfect!”

  “No, it isn’t. I cannot accept.” Disappointment sizzled in his belly.

  Spence looked at him as if he’d sprouted a second head out of his ear. “Don’t be a fool. Northill is not a large manor by Lakefield Abbey standards, but it is a good size and the lands are extensive enough, not to mention self-sustaining. I’m surprised Franklyn would divest himself of it.”

  “I believe it is in retaliation.”

  Spence glanced up from the documents. “Retaliation?”

  “Northill came to the duke through his wife’s dowry. The estate has been in her family for generations and was meant to become part of Lady Susan’s dowry upon her marriage. Given the reason Lady Franklyn was on the docks to begin with,” he gave Spence a knowing look, “I believe Lord Franklyn has decided to teach her a lesson by offering her family’s estate to me for the hefty sum of one pound.”

  Spence cleared his throat and put the papers back on the desk. “Lord Franklyn always did have an interesting sense of justice about him. Either way, you should accept it.”

  “It is inappropriate.”

  “It is nothing of the sort. You nearly died saving his wife. It is the least he can do. Grandfather will understand.”