Beyond Seduction

To my fantabulous editor, Christine Zika,

for asking me to go beyond.

To my never-say-die agent, Roberta Brown,

for her humor and her steely nerve.

I am grateful, ladies, more than I can say!

Prologue

"Your daughter will marry my son," said Althorp.

He stood by the parlor window, stout and sure, his chill gaze betraying the ruthless nature at his core. Despite the thickening of his figure, he was as handsome as he'd been at twenty-nine. The cut of his morning coat was impeccable, his posture both casual and assured.

Few would guess he was an object of scorn among the circle to which he had always aspired.

The sight of him in her home—in her life—made Lavinia Vance, celebrated duchess to the duke of Monmouth, want to rake her nails down his cultured face. Instead, she smoothed the skirt of her tightly laced brocade gown. Her skin glowed beside the
terre D'Egypte
red and the long cuirass bodice made

her curves seem more imperial than ever. She looked her fashionable best, but rather than experiencing her usual satisfaction at the fact, she found herself wishing she felt as confident as she looked.

Judging by the amusement in his eyes, Althorp was aware of her emotions. He stepped closer, lifting

his arm as if to touch her cheek. When she shrank instinctively back, he merely smiled. His hand fell

to her arm.

At the touch, a memory came: her own fingers stroking the dun-brown birthmark on his back as they

lay in a rumpled hotel bed. He'd been magnetic then, strong and attentive, and so much more intelligent than most of her husband's friends. It had seemed the height of injustice that they snubbed him simply because his father had been in trade. A baronetcy bought with coal, they sneered, the ink on the title barely dry. Hurting back then herself, she'd wanted to kiss his wounds and make them better, never dreaming how coldly he'd use her sympathy to control her—in bed and out. She could not believe the things she'd done, the things she had enjoyed.

Repelled, she turned her head away. If only she could erase that much-regretted time!

Too close to evade, Althorp's breath stirred her hair. "I remember when you welcomed my caress,

when you could not do enough to please me."

"That"—she lifted her chin—"was a lapse of judgment of which I am not proud."

"Tut-tut, Lavinia. Insults gain you nothing. You know you have more to lose than I should our former relationship be exposed."

She shook free of him, part of her wondering as always if he were bluffing. Exposing himself as an adulterer would hardly further his son's ambitions—or, rather, his ambitions for his son; Lavinia

doubted Ernest himself aspired so high.

But the doubt remained unspoken. She did not dare test Althorp's determination. Given the paucity of

the baronet's support among the peerage, if Lavinia's husband didn't help Ernest stand for the House of Commons, chances were no one with leverage would. If her enemy's dreams of paternal grandeur were dashed, would he hesitate to return the favor?

She could not deny she had more to lose than he did. Her position in society was the culmination of her every hope. If the truth became known, at the very least her husband would banish her to
Scotland
. For his wife to have had an affair with a man he believed to be his friend ... Geoffrey's pride would not allow that to go unpunished.

Satisfied he'd made his point, Althorp folded his arms and regarded her from under heavy, half-lidded eyes. Still in his hand, the brim of his black silk top hat rested against his side. It was an exquisite

creation, neither too high nor too low, with a crisp, curving rim. The duke did not own one so fine.

"My son is going to be prime minister," he said with the sureness she'd come to loathe. "And your husband, his future father-in-law, is going to start him on that road. He'll have to if he doesn't want

people to think his precious Merry has married down. All you have to do is push your idiot daughter

into my son's arms."

Lavinia laughed at his claim, an edge of hysteria in the sound. She
had
pushed, to an extent that shamed her. Moreover, she'd made certain her daughter would have no other suitors for her hand. As plain as

she was, as outspoken as she was, Merry herself had sabotaged her prospects well enough. Thanks to Lavinia, however, every mother with a son knew what a hellion she was and how she'd be certain to shame any family she married into. Lavinia had disguised her purpose with mournful sighs—no one would think her an unnatural mother—but the few men who had shown a glimmer of interest had thus been scared away.

If only manipulating Merry were as easy.

"I don't dare push her any harder," she said, her fingers twined into an involuntary knot. "She'll only

dig her heels in if she feels cornered."

Her plea fell on deaf ears. Althorp dropped his arms and tapped his hat against his trouser leg. The

flutter of the paler cloth was a telling sign of his impatience.

"I've given you a year," he said, "and twice she has refused him. For God's sake, my son is not a monster. He is a good-looking, intelligent, well-mannered young man. Your husband approves. And

from what I can see, your daughter does not despise him."

"She thinks he'll try to control her."

"She needs controlling!" Althorp exclaimed, then lowered his voice. "Put your foot down, Lavinia. And have your husband put down his. The girl has to marry someone. You and I both know it had better be my son."

Lavinia sensed he was in earnest. She looked down at the hands she'd clutched together in unconscious prayer. Her gloves were creased, and damp inside with fear. With all her heart, she wished she weren't

a coward. Surely nothing was more despicable than pandering one's daughter for the selfish preservation of one's place.

"I need more time," she said.

Althorp caught her chin and raised it in an iron grip. The squeeze of his bare fingers was intimate and

hot. "One month," he said. "My son is planning to ask her again on New Year's Eve. By New Year's

Day I want to hear they are betrothed."

He released her and turned, not saying good-bye or even nodding. He simply pulled on his gloves and strode from the room.

He knew she had no choice but to do precisely as he asked.

Alone once more, an unladylike sweat prickled beneath her breasts. Her heart beat against her stays as

if it longed to escape the bonds of flesh. For a moment,, she allowed the dark deliverance to whisper its temptations in her ear. But what sort of haven would Death be to a sinner like herself? No haven at all, she thought. And why should she surrender when much of her life was still so sweet? She was the duchess of Monmouth: a social force. She had her house and her clothes and her handsome sons. Her husband had in later years become if not a lover, at least a friend. These were precious gifts she would not willingly leave behind.

Her hands curled into fists. Somehow she had to change her daughter's mind. Then they could all go on with their lives. But how to do it—how?—when the foolish chit would rather be a spinster than a bride.

One

London
:
December 31, 1875

Nicolas Craven, famous artist and infamous libertine, slouched in the wing-backed leather chair as if

he did not ever intend to rise. His paisley brown robe of flowing silk was tied at his trim, hard waist. Beneath this he was naked. In the interest of warmth, a snifter of brandy, mostly full, lay cradled against his chest. A coal fire burned behind the grate on which his slippered feet were propped. Its steady glow

lit keen, saturnine features. His eyes were smoke, his jaw as sharp as steel. A pianist would not have scorned his hands. His voice was another matter. In contrast to this lean, dark elegance, it was as hoarse and graveled as if he spent his days shouting on the docks.

That impression was misleading. Nicolas Craven barely had to whisper to draw attention. He was a genius, people said, better than Leighton or Alma-Tadema, not that either of those luminaries would

have conceded their position. In any case, people listened when Nic spoke, whether out of respect for

his talent or fear of his occasionally cutting wit he did not care. He only cared that they leave him alone when he was tired.

As he was tonight.

He'd completed his latest commission. The bursts of manic activity—elation, frustration, nights spent

with brushes clamped between his teeth and paint-stained fingers plunged in his hair—had ceased as if he'd grabbed the clapper of a big bronze bell. His body rang with the echoes of his exertion, emptied

out and exhausted. But he would rest now. The portrait was done. Monmouth had come to collect it

that morning and pronounced himself pleased, though Nic doubted the duke saw more than a fraction

of what the painting said.

He had caught the man.

Hell, he'd caught half the British peerage: their befud-dlement at the changing times, their pomposity

and self-indulgence, their earnest belief in their ability to save the world ... as long as the world wanted

to be saved in a manner they approved of.

His mouth curled in ironic self-disgust. No point looking down his nose at them. No matter how Nic

lived, his blood was just as blue.

Not that he could blame his sins on that.

He turned his gaze to the window, to the jungle of foliage that hid his cozy home in
St. John's
Wood.

A winter fog, thick as cat's fur, had crept out from
London
to swallow this artist's enclave to the north. He could barely make out the ivy that grew across the glass, obscured as it was by the ashy haze. The mix of chocolate and silver was extraordinary, soft as velvet. If Nic hadn't been too lazy to move he'd have reached for his pastels. That something so foul could be so beautiful he could only marvel.

He was actually considering getting up when a tap on the library door saved him from the effort. At his grunt, his butler, Farnham, entered with a tray of food and coffee. As always, Nic had dismissed the servants in the emotional low water that followed his painting fits. Since this particular low water had come during the holidays, Nic was a popular man.
Holiday
or no, per usual, Farnham had not hied himself away. The older man had been a sergeant in the
Crimea
. His sense of duty was stronger than

that of the other staff— stronger, in fact, than his employer's.