A Dangerous Seduction

“Tell me you wish to leave me. Tell me that while I take your breath away, while I make you moan. Come, make me believe it.”

He pulled her into his arms, bruising her lips under his. She collapsed against him, and Morgan thought the victory won.

But suddenly she pulled back, holding him off with her palms, her eyes the ominous gray of a lowering storm. She spoke quietly at first, but her voice rose steadily with growing emotion. “You say I want you. And I do.” She wiped angrily at her eyes. “You know it. And you are taking advantage of it, and…” She was shouting now, tears trailing down her face.

“I will not be your whore!”

Praise for Patricia Frances Rowell’s debut

A PERILOUS ATTRACTION

“…promising Regency-era debut…

a memorable heroine who succeeds in capturing

the hero’s heart as well as the reader’s.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Ms. Rowell has a nice touch for penning

likeable characters…a relaxing, romantic read.”

—Romantic Times

“…a promising first romance.”

—The Romance Reader

A Dangerous Seduction

Patricia Frances Rowell

www.millsandboon.co.uk

In memory of my young friend Morgan Mitchell,

who left us at the age of nine

And for my grandchildren,

who are, happily, still with us—

Zachary Nathaniel, Eric Dean, Joseph Richmond,

Amber Nicole, Camille Elise, Joy Anna, Jillian Paige

and Andrew Houghton

And, of course, for Johnny

Acknowledgment

I would like to thank my friend Maria Budzenski

for her help with this story. She sent me literally

boxes of information in addition to her personal

observations of Cornwall. Thank you, Maria.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Prologue

London, England, 1808

P ain. Gripping, grinding, paralyzing pain. He lay on the grass in the pool of blood that leaked through his fingers. But how could he…?

Five, six, seven—three more steps and he would kill the bastard. But there had been no more steps. Eight… A flash of light, a blast, and he was falling. Falling forward, propelled by a blow that knocked him off his feet and onto his face.

Laughter. Shouts. Running feet. Shots. The blood stained his coat and dripped over the hand he pressed in vain against his chest.

The scurvy dog shot before the count! Shot you in the back.

And he laughed.

The laughter echoed through the darkness that was closing around him.

The bastard laughed!

Hoofbeats. The laughter trailing away.

He had thought he hated the man. Now he knew better.

In that moment was conceived a hatred as deep as his soul.

He tried to raise himself on one elbow, tried to lift the pistol still clutched in his hand. Too heavy. Too dark. Hands taking the pistol. Voices calling his name. The darkness wrapping around him in a smothering cloud. Gasping. Choking.

Breathe, damn you, breathe. A breath. Another breath. One more. Another. You can’t die. Not now. The dog must pay.

He will pay. He will pay with everything.

Everything.

Chapter One

Cornwall, England, 1816

T here it lay.

Morgan Pendaris, Earl of Carrick, drew rein at the top of the knoll, bringing the curricle to a stop. Before him over the rolling hills spread the woods, fields and meadows of his home, lush and green, neatly divided and stitched across by ancient hedges.

Nineteen years. Nineteen long years. Nineteen years dark with blood and hate. But, at last, Merdinn again belonged to him. His eyes narrowed with satisfaction, the words that had been his polestar ringing in his head, the words of Genghis Khan.

The greatest joy a man can have is to see his enemy in chains, to deprive him of his possessions, to ride his horses, to see tears on the faces of his loved ones, and to crush in your arms his wives and daughters.

He had at last deprived Cordell Hayne of every possession, including the estate that Hayne’s father had stolen from his. Chains were not far behind. The cur was firmly under the hatches, his only choice debtors prison or the transport ships.

“Why are we stopping, Uncle Morgan?”

“Because we have reached the Merdinn lands, Jeremy.” Morgan raked his dark curls out of his face with impatient fingers, a gesture that was the despair of Dagenham, his long-suffering valet. He smiled down at the boy seated beside him. “It has been a very long time since I have seen them.”

“But you lived here when you were my age?” Without waiting for an answer he already knew, Jeremy rushed on. “When will we see the castle?”

“Soon now.” Morgan flicked his reins and the curricle started down the hill. “It stands behind that bit of woods there.” He pointed with his whip.

The road wound between the fields, the summer sun of Cornwall hot on their heads and necks. A sliver of silver on their left marked the sea, placid at the moment, only the tiniest waves visible. As they neared the castle, the bridge across the old ditch rang hollow beneath the hooves of the horses and they plunged into the cool shade and dank greenery of the small forest that now covered the motte. The way rose steeply as they climbed the man-made hill, flickering through the shadows cast by the twisted trunks of the trees.

Jeremy bounced in his seat. “And there are real towers and real battlements?”

“Yes, as I have told you many times, there are two towers on the seaside wall.”

“But there is no drawbridge and it looks more like a big house now.” The boy’s voice clearly reflected his disapproval of another fact he had often been told.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Jeremy.” Morgan chuckled. He remembered how much, as a seven-year-old boy, he himself had wished that the crumbling walls still stood, that the bridges still lifted, that he might charge across them on a fiery steed. But alas, those deeds belonged to ages past. The towers, however, remained satisfyingly intact—or at least, mostly so. They shared with the rest of the manor the deterioration of two generations of neglect, the neglect that he intended to wipe away.

And when all had again been restored to stateliness and comfort, he would bring his mother home, back to her rightful place as mistress of Merdinn.

Suddenly the trees parted and Morgan’s heart swelled as his boyhood home stood before his eyes—somewhat battered perhaps, as he himself was, but still proud and strong.

Across the level ground of the bailey that had once lain inside a curtain wall, lay the gray stone of the manor itself, with the twin towers on the wall behind it standing proudly against the azure sky. Behind them, he knew, the cliff fell away over jagged rocks into the sea.

He heard beside him a small sigh of satisfaction. “There really are towers.”

“Did you doubt my word?” Morgan lifted one eyebrow as he guided his blacks around the curving drive.

“Oh, no!” A touch of dismay sounded in the boy’s voice. “I wouldn’t question your honor, Uncle Morgan.” He glanced speculatively up at his uncle. “You aren’t going to call me out, are you?”

“No. Not today.”

A sigh. “I thought not.”

Morgan couldn’t decide whether he heard relief or disappointment. “Are you so eager to engage in an affair of honor?”

“Well,” Jeremy pondered, “not with you. But I think it would be famous to have a duel.”

“Believe me, it is not.” Morgan pulled his horses in before the double doors of the house. “I hope you never have occasion to find that out for yourself.”

As he waited for a groom to come take his horses, a surge of excitement coursed through Morgan. The success of another of his goals would be achieved within minutes. He did not expect to find Hayne at Merdinn. The bastard would be in London, trying desperately to find a way to recoup. But his wife… Ah. Hayne’s mysterious, never-seen wife, the usurper of his mother’s place, the cause of his sister’s disgrace. She would be there.

Within minutes he would put her out of his house.

Let her go to her rotten husband. Let her go with him to whatever hole claimed him. Let her beg on the streets, for all he cared. No longer would she be a barrier to decent women, to the women he loved. Enough time had elapsed. She should already be preparing for departure.

Several minutes passed without the appearance of a groom. Hmm. Had Hayne already dismissed his staff? Was the place deserted? No. The windows were open on the second floor. “Well, then, Jeremy. It seems that we will have to take the horses to the stable ourselves.”

“I can take them, Uncle Morgan, while you go inside.” Jeremy looked hopefully at his uncle.

Morgan tousled his nephew’s hair as he once again gave his mettlesome horses the office to start. “All in good time, ambitious one.”

Another heavy sigh. Shaking his head in amusement, Morgan directed his team through the stable door and climbed down. Jeremy scrambled down after him and dashed past him to the back door of the building. Morgan sauntered after him, his critical eye appraising the lone riding mount and the sturdy cob that appeared to be the only occupants of the stalls. Hardly an impressive selection.

Perhaps Hayne had contrived to depose of his stable before Morgan could take possession of it. He scowled. Much good it would do him. Morgan now owned the paper on every debt that Hayne had incurred in a long and profligate career. Even the sale of his horses would not save him. Morgan rubbed at his chest absently. Nothing would save the cad now.

He followed Jeremy out into the sunshine behind the dark stable. At the rear of the stable and the kitchen wing of the house, a large kitchen garden tumbled down the motte. Morgan frowned thoughtfully. It looked to be a great deal larger than he remembered. And now that he thought about it, there were more flower beds in the lawn of the bailey. He wouldn’t have thought that Hayne would have spent money on gardens. Perhaps it was the wife.

Two women, their hair covered with kerchiefs, worked far down the slope. They apparently did not hear him, or perhaps considered the arrival of guests none of their concern. One of them stepped with the slow movements of age, and gray hair peeped from under her scarf. The other looked young and possibly shapely under her heavy skirts. A midnight-black braid of hair as thick as her wrist dropped from beneath her head covering to her hips. It shone lustrously in the sun.

At the sound of footsteps Morgan reluctantly tore his gaze from the shining hair and the hips beneath it. Jeremy rounded the far corner of the stable, a tall, thin man in his wake. “Look, Uncle Morgan, I found someone.”

“James!” Morgan hurried forward, his hand extended. “It’s good to see you.”

“Lord Morgan? Is it really you?” The old man grasped his hand and pumped it vigorously. “It’s a sight for sore eyes you are! What brings you here?”

“I’m home to stay, James. Merdinn is no longer in the hands of the Haynes.”

“Him!” James spat on the ground. “I’ll be glad to see the back of his head. He had his way he’d have turned me off long ago. Said I can’t do the work no more.” He patted his silvery locks. “Just because there’s a little snow on the roof… But the missus keeps me on. I handle everything just fine by myself.” He jerked his head toward the two resident horses. “Ain’t all that much to do. But let me see to your team. Beautiful bits of bone and blood they are, too. You and the little fellow go on up to the house. I’ll take care of ’em.”

Murmuring his thanks, Morgan herded Jeremy out into the bailey. As they strolled toward the main door of the house he glanced at the beds of plants that dotted the lawn. To his surprise he noted that they contained as many vegetables as flowers. The effect was odd, but strangely pleasing.

Not bothering to knock, he opened the door and Jeremy darted inside. They found themselves in a vaulted hall, before them a wide set of stairs leading up. “Where do they go, Uncle Morgan?”

“To the upper levels. Hold your horses but a little longer, Jeremy, and I will take you over the whole place. For now, come into the library and let us see if anyone is about.” He turned to a door on his left and led the way into a large room lined with books. He gave the bellpull an authoritative tug and sat down in the chair behind the desk. Jeremy immediately climbed the book ladder to the top and sat surveying his new domain.

While he waited, Morgan glanced at the papers on the desk. They seemed to be household books, but there were not enough of them to account for the running of the castle. He was going through the drawers when a frail young girl timidly opened the library door and poked her dull blond head into the room. When she saw him sitting at the desk and Jeremy perched like a gargoyle on the ladder, she squeaked and hastily withdrew.

“Wait!” Morgan sprang out of the chair and through the door barely in time to grasp her arm before she could disappear into the kitchen wing. Jeremy scampered down the ladder and peered around the door. “Here now. What’s the matter with you? Where is everyone?” The girl cringed away from him and hung her head, giving every evidence of terror. Morgan snorted in frustration. “Is your mistress at home?”

The girl nodded. At last! A response. “Then kindly tell her that the Earl of Carrick would like a moment of her time. I’ll be in the library.” She scurried away and disappeared. “Am I mad or is it everyone else?” Morgan stalked back into the library and sprawled into a chair. “One pensioner in the stable and one half-wit in the house. Perhaps Mrs. Hayne is almost ready to leave.”

At least she had ordered a good cleaning before going. The books looked dusted and the leather chair smelled of lemon oil. The stone floor was well polished, although the carpet was distinctly worn. It had been worn the last time Morgan had seen it. Too impatient to sit longer, he paced around the room. Where was the woman? He had been waiting for at least twenty minutes. Was she showing her disdain for him? His lip curled. If so, let her enjoy it while she may. If the curst woman would but show herself…

After another half hour his anger had grown to the point of explosion. Jeremy prudently busied himself with looking at the pictures in an old book, careful to avoid the avuncular displeasure. Morgan had almost decided to scour the castle for its soon-to-be-former mistress himself when the door opened and a woman stepped into the room. He recognized her immediately as the younger woman he had seen in the garden.

“Who the hell are you, and where the hell is Mrs. Hayne? I sent for her an hour ago. She has not yet done me the courtesy of responding.” He glared at the gardener. Her gown had green stains from the plants and there was a smudge of dirt on her nose. There was also a puzzled expression in her eyes—eyes, he noted, that were the calm, transparent aquamarine of the shallows on a sunny day.

“I’m sorry you had to wait, my lord.” She crossed the room to the chair opposite Morgan and sank into it gracefully. “Peggy did not tell me until a moment ago that you were here.”

Morgan stared in astonishment. This woman certainly had a lot of brass for a gardener. His scowl deepened. “What’s wrong with Peggy? Is she half-witted?”

“No, just fearful.” She wiped at the dirt on her face, smearing it and making matters worse.

“What the devil is she so afraid of?” Morgan’s eyes went to the streaked face and then to the skin beneath the dirt. It appeared to be flawless—as luminescent as a pearl. The tendrils of raven-black hair escaping from the kerchief framed softly rounded cheeks that glowed a slightly deeper rose. When she spoke he discovered that, for a moment, he had forgotten his own question. He jerked his attention back to her answer.

“Everything. Of you. Of me. Of making a mistake.”

Morgan shook his head, not completely understanding. If that were the case, the young girl deserved his pity, not his scorn. In fact, it came to his attention that the woman in the chair across from him did not deserve the anger he had generated toward the elusive Mrs. Hayne. He should not have cursed in her presence, whoever she was.

He moderated his tone. “You have still not told me who you are.”

She looked startled. “Why, I am Eulalia Hayne. You asked for me?”

The sense of unreality that had been growing in Morgan reached a new height. This lovely but disheveled creature was the stylish Cordell Hayne’s wife? He had pictured a cold and haughty woman, lifting herself on the backs of others as Hayne himself did. And he had pictured her living in grandeur stolen from his family. He could only stare.

“You are Mrs. Hayne?” She nodded and he thought he glimpsed for a moment the slightest twinkle in those remarkable eyes. “Where is the rest of your staff?”

“There is no staff except me, my grandmother, James and Peggy.”

“And Hayne is content to live like this?”

For a moment the eyes darkened, as though a cloud had passed over the sun. Then a small smile curved the deep-rose lips. “My husband is very rarely here, except when he takes his sloop out. Did you wish to speak to him?”

The question of Hayne’s whereabouts began to disturb Morgan. “Is he in residence now?”

“No. He rode in yesterday, but only for a short while. He left again in the Seahawk, saying that he had a wager on a sailing race that would bring him about.” She shrugged. The movement brought the tops of two plump globes covered in pearly skin nearer to the rounded neckline of her dress. The train of the conversation again momentarily eluded Morgan. With an effort he pulled his gaze back to her face as she continued. “I don’t know what he meant, exactly, but he often races the Seahawk. He has been doing so a great deal of late. It’s very fast, and he likes to wager on the outcome.”

“He likes to wager on everything.” Morgan frowned. Apparently he had not succeeded in depriving Hayne of his boat. An oversight on his part. But perhaps not. Hayne would think nothing of taking out a boat that had already been foreclosed. Or of making a wager when he no longer had anything to back it.

Or of leaving Morgan to break the news to his wife that she no longer had a home.

Suddenly the shining prospect of that satisfying moment faded a trifle. He had believed that Hayne would have at least sent word to her that he had lost Merdinn, but obviously he had not. His wife sat before him with confusion in her eyes. As Morgan searched for the words that would at last avenge his mother and sister, Jeremy closed his book and edged forward to get a better look at the lady.

She turned in surprise, and the first real smile Morgan had seen bloomed in her face. “Well, who is this?”

Morgan motioned the boy forward. “This is my nephew, Jeremy Pendaris. He makes his home with me.”

Jeremy stepped closer and essayed a polite bow. “How do you do, Mrs. Hayne?”

She held out a welcoming hand and clasped Jeremy’s small one. “How nice to meet you, Jeremy.”

Seeing the warm response in his nephew’s face, Morgan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Things were not going as he had expected. “Jeremy, I need to speak with Mrs. Hayne privately. You may explore on this floor of the building, but on no account are you to climb the wall or the towers. Nor are you to go down the path to our cove alone—not now or at any other time. Do I make myself clear?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I promise.” Jeremy quickly dashed for the door before his uncle could change his mind.

When the door had banged shut behind him, Morgan turned back to Eulalia Hayne and hardened his heart. “Mrs. Hayne, apparently it falls to me to explain your situation to you.” Damnation! Where were the arrogant words he had rehearsed so many times in his dreams? “Are you aware that nineteen years ago your father-in-law came into possession of Merdinn, a property that had been in the Pendaris family for generations, as the result of a dishonorable business arrangement?”

Again her eyes seemed to darken to a light gray, like the sunless winter sea. “I know very little about the dealings of my husband’s family. At that time I would have been only five years old. My family lived nearby, but I would not have remembered anything like that.”

Morgan remembered. He remembered that day in every agonizing detail. His father’s impotent anger, his mother’s tears, his own pain as his beloved home was ripped away from him. His own anger. It welled in him again, and a muscle jumped in his tightened jaw. At the age of fifteen he had been dispossessed of his birthright. He spoke through clenched teeth. “Suffice to say that he did so—by defrauding my father. I have recently been able to regain what the Haynes stole from my family.”

A small pucker increased between the lady’s brows. “I am not sure I understand.”

“I now own Merdinn.”

He watched in silence as the significance of the statement sank in. She sat very still in her chair, her hands lying motionless in her lap. At last she nodded. “I see. My husband has sold it to you?”

“No.” The word was stark, harsh. Morgan waited a heartbeat before continuing. “Your husband had mortgaged everything he owned—and he was far in arrears on even the interest, let alone the principal. I have bought up all his notes—on the land, his wagers, his cattle—everything. He now owns nothing.”

“I see.” She continued to sit like a statue, but he could see a pulse beating frantically in her throat. “My only income derives from a small portion of the tenant rents.”

“Unfortunately, any arrangement that Hayne made is no longer worth the ink in which it was signed. All the rents are now payable to me.”

She stood and lifted her small chin. The gray of her eyes now approached the dark color of the sea in storm. “I understand. My grandmother and I will leave as quickly as we can. Will three days be soon enough?”

“You may wait for your husband’s return. You will no doubt want to go with him.”

An expression he could not read flitted over her face. “I do not believe that it will be useful to wait.”

She left the room with a dignified tread. Morgan blew out an angry breath and slumped in his chair. He did this for his mother, and even more for his poor deceived, disgraced little sister. For Beth. Especially for her. God rest her unhappy soul.

But the triumph suddenly left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Chapter Two

L alia carefully laid the hairbrush on the dressing table, forbidding herself to throw it, and dropped her face into her hands. Her thoughts spun ’round and ’round and back and forth like the unattended wheel of a ship in a gale. What was she to do? Where in the world could she go? And what about Daj? She was no longer young, and her bones hurt her so. She could do very little work. Lalia would have to earn their bread for both herself and her grandmother. She had almost no money to provide for them until she could find employment. She could not afford to go to London or even Bath. And what was she trained to do?