A Warriner To Seduce Her

How perfectly splendid. She’d been abandoned by the only two people she knew in the room. Yet another thing to sour her already dour mood. She was stuck miles from home at a ball she didn’t want to be at, wearing a dress she feared she was spilling out of, trussed in a corset she couldn’t breathe in and, to make the occasion all the more perturbing, she couldn’t see more than two feet past her nose. As soon as she got back to Uncle Crispin’s soulless Mayfair house, she had every intention of penning a sternly worded letter to Sister Ursuline telling her the next time she had the urge to suggest Fliss have a little adventure, she could mind her own business.

Typically, within a few minutes of squeezing past the silk-clad throng she was hopelessly lost and it didn’t feel polite to ask such personal directions of complete strangers. Aunt Daphne had said the ladies’ retiring room was in a corner and Almack’s was reassuringly rectangular. If she kept resolutely to the edge, she would doubtless find the dratted room eventually, even if that involved going around a few times. Retracing her steps to the refreshment table might be more problematic, but at least left to her own devices she was spared a few minutes of pointless parading, smiling and gliding like a wispy, blind swan. A slow smile bloomed on her face at the prospect. Suddenly, being lost held a great deal of appeal.

Chapter Two (#u2563f3b5-6187-53f8-a574-7c0b42b13fb4)

In a secluded alcove in St James’s

Jake was still sulking when he arrived at Almack’s. Seducing an innocent, wide-eyed chit didn’t sit right with him. And, if he was being entirely honest with himself, neither did flirting with one. While he was supremely confident in his ability to do both with exceptional finesse, he made it a point of principle never to dally with nice young ladies. Bawdy young ladies, experienced older ladies and anyone who ran the gamut between was fair game, but impressionable virgins had always been off limits.

For all the many notches on his bedpost, he had not been a single woman’s first lover, nor had he ever wooed a woman who didn’t know how the game of illicit courtship was played. He might well be a scandalous good-for-nothing scoundrel, but even scoundrels had standards. A line in the sand which they did not cross. Yet now he was being asked to cross it for King and country—another standard he held sacrosanct. Despite a whole day to ponder the moral dilemma he still wasn’t entirely sure he was prepared to make an exception.

Lord Fennimore had no such reservations, but then Lord Fennimore was not the one who was going to be whispering sweet nothings into her inexperienced ear or trying to trick her tender heart into trusting a man who shouldn’t be trusted. But if his gut instinct was correct, then her uncle deserved all that was coming to him. Aside from the French double agent, every single person who had brought them closer towards the dangerous smuggling ring had wound up dead. All in very believable circumstances, of course—a carriage accident, a nasty fall, drowning in the docks while roaring drunk—but all cases a little too convenient and too close to their investigation to be dismissed. It positively reeked of foul play and Rowley was at the heart of it. And they did have to stop him, the sooner the better, but Jake sincerely hoped not like this. The whole situation left a very bad taste in his mouth.

Careful to stay in the shadows in the alcove, he scanned the room for the latest crop of debutantes. Fortunately, they were easy to spot. They were all obscenely young, eager and clad in the palest silk gowns. They were also all wearing permanently awestruck expressions. With no clue as to what Miss Blunt looked like, he instead searched for the Sawyer sisters, a task which didn’t take long. The two ladies were glued to the refreshment table, clearly enjoying their matching glasses of lemonade too much for the contents of their glasses to be purely lemon.

Lady Daphne was sporting what resembled a whole peacock’s tail on her head, while Lady Cressida’s coiffure sprouted ostrich plumes dyed pink to match her garish dress. The weight of both headdresses, and perhaps the hard spirits the two women had a legendary fondness for, was making the feathers list. Or perhaps it was the ladies who listed. From this distance, Jake couldn’t be sure. He watched them closely for a full ten minutes before he could say for certain they had already misplaced their charge. With nothing else to do, he propped himself against a pillar and settled in for a long wait. With any luck, the chit would have already been waylaid by a handsome fellow who’d have already swept her off her juvenile feet, thus providing Jake with a ready excuse to throw in Fennimore’s face when Jake failed in his unsavoury mission. Surely they could get to Rowley another way? He could work his way through the man’s changing parade of mistresses, seduce a willing and lusty maid—hell, if it came to it, Jake was even prepared to whisper sweet nothings into the ears of Rowley’s housekeeper as long as the woman was not a complete hag. Anyone, in fact, but an innocent child.

It was the perfume which distracted him first. The heady scent reminded Jake of fat summer roses, fresh air and sunshine. Nothing like the stuffy smell of Almack’s. His nostrils twitched as they sought the source until his eyes located her.

Now this was more the kind of woman he would choose to seduce. Too bad she was not his assignment. He’d even go as far as admitting the tantalising vision that had just turned the corner would be pure pleasure, for once, rather than business. Thick honey hair, sultry almond eyes and the lushest pair of lips he’d seen in a long time. And the sensuous way she moved drew his eyes and imprisoned them. Her own had a faraway look in them as she hugged the wall, trailing the tips of her gloved fingers along the plaster as if she had all the time in the world and was in no hurry to go anywhere. He liked that about her.

Here in Almack’s the ladies always had a higher purpose. To be seen. To be noticed. To make a good impression. To find a husband. This woman preferred the shadows and had no interest in the nonsense going on outside the alcove. Just like him.

She still hadn’t noticed him, despite the fact he stood barely ten feet away, so Jake watched her gaze out towards the dancers and sigh. There was a distinctly dreamy look about her, as if she wished she was somewhere else, something he also empathised with. If he hadn’t been working, he might have walked over and suggested they go elsewhere together. But alas, he was on a mission and needed to see it through as swiftly as possible no matter how distasteful he found it. Something which would not happen if he gave in to the overwhelming temptation to talk to her. Jake watched her scan the room again, this time with very narrowed eyes which made him wonder exactly what it was she suddenly disapproved of until she clearly saw something—or someone—she didn’t want to. She darted behind a pillar and straight into a potted palm.

The clumsy manoeuvre made him laugh out loud. Her head whipped around in alarm at the sound.

‘Don’t worry. I shan’t tell whoever it is that you are hiding from them.’

‘I am not hiding.’ But she didn’t move from the safety of the pillar. ‘Oh, all right, I am. Have they gone?’

Jake scanned the area and nodded. ‘There’s nobody here but you and me. If it’s any consolation, I’m hiding, too.’ Hiding from the inevitable. ‘What are you hiding from?’

‘The gentlemen my chaperons appear intent on introducing me to. What are you hiding from?’

‘Responsibility and duty.’

Those lush lips instantly turned up in a smile and she was prettier for it. ‘You can’t hide from those.’

‘I can and I have for the better part of a decade. What’s wrong with the men your chaperons are foisting upon you?’

‘Nothing, I suppose, other than the fact they are being foisted upon me. I didn’t come here to meet gentlemen.’ That in itself set her apart from the sea of eager hopefuls in the ballroom.

‘Then what did you come here for?’

She sighed and looked miserable. ‘My mother. Apparently, it was her dearest wish that I visit Almack’s—among other things. Although I fail to see the appeal of the place.’

‘Such enthusiasm.’

‘I have no enthusiasm.’ The corners of those plump lips twitched again. There was the vaguest hint of the north in her accent, more northern than where he came from in Nottingham. Yorkshire, perhaps, or Lancashire? ‘That is part of the problem. I got lost half an hour ago and I find myself surprisingly content with being lost and by default reluctant to be found again just yet.’

Intriguing. Much more intriguing than the onerous task he was meant to be doing. ‘What is it about this quintessential society ritual which has forced you into hiding?’

Her nose wrinkled endearingly before she spoke. ‘I find the whole thing pointless and a little shallow, if I am honest.’ Something he had a feeling she always was. A northern trait. Brutal honesty and the inability to suffer fools or foolishness gladly.

‘I can see how the attraction soon wears thin. Especially as Almack’s has so many tiresome rules one has to obey. How many visits to this stifling establishment did it take for you to become so jaded?’

‘Oh, this is my first. I was presented to the patronesses an hour ago.’ She smiled a little shyly, but leaned a little closer than was proper, treating him to more of her delicious perfume, more alluring now that it was closer to her skin. ‘I am being launched into society tonight. Rather reluctantly as I am sure you can see.’

She looked nothing like the traditional debutante. For a start, she had at least five years on most of them and lacked the dewy-eyed innocence prevalent all around them which Jake found so distasteful. ‘This is your come-out?’ Laughter threatened at the preposterousness. She had to be well past the age of majority, but, age aside, she was too canny a woman. Too comfortable in her own skin and mind when all around her were awed and awkward girls.

‘I can see, sir, that you are as staggered by it as I am and are racking your brains for a polite way to say I am a bit too old to be coming out. Which I patently am.’

There was no point in denying it. ‘How come a matron of such advanced years is only just being launched into society?’ As he had hoped, she smiled at the sarcasm. He had no time for people who didn’t understand it. Irony and sarcasm were two of his very best friends.

‘I confess, I honestly have no idea. One minute I was happily enjoying my dotage in Keswick and then I was dragged here.’

Very north, then. The more she spoke the more he could hear it in the lilt of her voice. ‘How awful for you. Were you dragged from the bosom of Cumbria against your will?’

‘Not completely. When the invitation came, I’ll admit to being intrigued. London is an adventure, I suppose, and I was due one. And I was curious about the city I was born in, but have no memory of. I wanted to visit some of the sights I’ve only read about. The Tower of London, the British Museum, St James’s Palace...’ She sighed dramatically to amuse him. ‘But alas, my uncle expressly forbade any touring about until I was launched properly.’

Little flags raised in his mind. ‘Your uncle?’ Surely it was a coincidence?

‘Yes. My mother’s brother. I hardly know him really, but he wrote to me saying he had promised my mother he would give me a Season and, apparently, dear Uncle Crispin only remembered that solemn promise this year. Hence, I am undoubtedly the oldest debutante anyone has ever seen and feel much like an old trout, rather than a common or garden fish out of water.’

‘Hardly old.’ It was difficult to sound nonchalant when his mind was already reeling, both at his good luck at naturally meeting the woman he had been sent here to seduce and his relief at finding her a grown woman rather than a child. ‘What are you...three and twenty?’

‘Save your polite London charm, sir, it’s wasted on me. I am five and twenty and look it. And happy to be so. Although even when I was younger, I doubt I was ever quite as young as some of the girls I was presented with. They all seem so surprised and dazzled by everything. I’ve never met such a jittery crop of girls before in my life. Do they not let young ladies out here in the capital before they come out?’

There was an earthiness and healthy cynicism about her which felt familiar and made him oddly homesick. Jake had grown up around people who said what they thought without artifice. Here in London, the true meaning of a person’s words was often buried under layers of the polite façade they presented to the world. ‘Of course not. Gently bred young ladies are practically locked up and kept well out of polite society to avoid them being corrupted.’

‘Yet overprotecting them makes them all the riper for corruption.’ She frowned as she said this, and shook her head. ‘No wonder those girls all appear overwhelmed. They have lived such sheltered lives and then they are brought here. A place where its sole purpose, as far as I can ascertain, is for unattached young ladies to be tirelessly paraded around like farm stock on auction day in the hope someone will notice them, then deign to marry them. And they are grateful to be put up for the gavel. Listen to them all twittering like excited sparrows at the prospect.’

‘You sound as if you disapprove, Miss...?’ There was the slim chance there was more than one Uncle Crispin in town.

‘Blunt. Blunt by name and blunt by nature, I’m afraid.’ Thanking all his lucky stars she was the right woman, Jake was suddenly ridiculously grateful he had had his leave postponed. Of all the women to, quite literally, stumble into him he’d been blessed by Rowley’s niece. Rowley’s lovely, womanly and ripe-for-the-picking northern niece. Seducing this tart morsel wouldn’t feel like work at all. This he would do for pure pleasure. ‘I apologise if you find my frankness rude.’

‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Blunt.’ He took her hand gently in his and kissed the back of it, confident she wouldn’t care when he failed to let go. ‘And I find your frankness refreshing. Like you I am from the north—deepest, darkest, dankest Nottinghamshire to be exact—my name is Jake Warriner and I loathe Almack’s, too.’

She leaned closer again, her pretty face tilted to one side and her palm heating his through the thin fabric of her evening gloves. Awareness. Chemistry. Mutual attraction. Jake knew the signs too well to mistake them for anything else. He had the urge to kiss her. An urge which had nothing to do with Crispin Rowley and everything to do with his bewitching niece. ‘Is it obvious I loathe it, Mr Warriner, only I have been trying exceedingly hard to appear as if I don’t?’

‘To me it is obvious, but then again, just like you I am loitering in the alcove and avoiding the sad crush. It hardly makes me a genius to have seen a kindred spirit.’

She gracefully disentangled his grip from hers. ‘When you put it like that, I suppose it doesn’t. Why do you loathe it?’

An easy question to answer with complete honesty for once. ‘This place, the stifling, petty rules and the callous way an elite few decide who is worthy to be allowed in, grates on me. I hate the power those few have over the others. If they take to you, you are guaranteed the best invitations of the Season. If they don’t, well...’ He left the implication to settle. ‘It all strikes me as grossly unfair.’

‘Those poor sparrows will be devastated by the cut. Some might never get over it.’