A Season of Seduction Read Online Free PDF Page A

you as either.”
She took a steadying breath. “But what of you?”
“What of me?”
“You said I reminded you of yourself because of my suffering. You seem to know all about my suffering. Now you must tell me of your own.”
A wry chuckle escaped him. “I shouldn’t have hoped you’d forgotten about that, should I?”
She shook her head, her expression somber.
He knew he must reveal the truth to her, but how much of it? There must be more omissions, and now, most certainly, there would be lies. But these were lies he was accustomed to telling. She’d hear some of the story in the next few days, of that he had no doubt.
How much easier it would be to take her straight to bed. To possess her sweet, delicate, willing flesh. To seduce her, to bring her to rapture, to dive deep within her, and experience the fulfillment he’d been anticipating for what felt like forever. His body commanded him to act.
But he’d taken it this far. Surely he could control his base desires for a while longer.
“Twelve years ago, I was a youth of eighteen.” At her nod, he continued. “I was… well, I was involved in a scandal.”
Twelve years ago, Lady Rebecca had been a child of ten sheltered in the Yorkshire dales. She’d have heard nothing of the events that had defined him for the past twelve years.
She cocked her head. “What kind of scandal?”
“It concerned a lady I had known since childhood and her husband, a marquis. Society assumed I was involved only because of my previous connection to the lady…”
“Involved in what?” she asked.
He faced straight ahead, staring at the small but elaborately carved marble fireplace. Someone had built the fire earlier, and it crackled cheerfully behind an Oriental screen. Flexing his fingers, he laid his hands on his knees, giving the appearance of relaxation. He hated talking about this. Hated it. But it had to be done—she would probably hear the story in a way that would transform Anne into a whore and him into a depraved seducer of married women.
Unexpectedly, nerves flickered in his gut. He’d planned this, but he never spoke of his past, of his exile, of Anne and the events surrounding her death. Yet Becky was important. She must know the story—at least the parts of it that would ultimately be revealed to her by parties who would depict his role in a less favorable light. She’d need ammunition with which to respond to the cruelty of the gossipmongers, of those who would try to destroy his association with her just for the sheer joy they would glean from doing so.
“The marriage was tumultuous. It was well known that the marquis had taken a mistress, and his wife—her name was Anne…” There, he’d said it. Her name. He hadn’t spoken her name aloud in years. It emerged more smoothly than he ever would have imagined.
Becky frowned at him. “Yes?”
“She was very unhappy.”
Becky gave a compassionate murmur.
“Late one night, the marquis was murdered between the door of his club and the mews.”
“Just a moment.” Becky raised her hand to prevent him from continuing. “I believe I’ve read about this. The Marquis of Haredowne was murdered in… 1815, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Jack said, his voice as taut as a mooring line under the strain of a gale. One strong gust, and it would break.
Her brow furrowed in thought. “I recall he was shot by footpads intending to rob him, but the sound of the gunshot attracted the attention of passers-by, and they ran away before they could steal anything.”
“That is the general understanding of what happened.”
“His wife died the very same day, didn’t she?”
He nodded, his throat dry.
“But she died of natural causes while he was murdered. It was a terrible tragedy.”
“Yes. It was. A tragedy of the very worst kind.”
“Oh, God.” Straightening, she stared at him with widened eyes. “Before the authorities could make sense of what had occurred, a young gentleman was implicated in the