The Problem with Seduction

Chapter Seventeen

CON COULD THINK OF any number of things he’d rather do than set himself up for a day alone with Lord Trestin. To make matters worse, the previous night he’d been unable to sneak into Elizabeth’s room. Oh, he’d managed to pad to her door in his stockings without much fuss, but she’d opened it looking harried and distracted. He’d soon learned Oliver had taken offense with the large, hollow-sounding room that was the nursery and demanded to be cuddled in his mother’s bed instead, communicating the only way a four-month-old boy knew: by howling incessantly until he had his way.

So Con had tiptoed back to his room and spent the night wrestling with the fears Trestin had so helpfully unearthed. He was dependent on Elizabeth. He relied on her largesse, and her advice. He needed her if he was to see Oliver, who he was coming to think of as his own—hearing the boy’s sad little sobs cemented it. But he had no real claim, other than the lie. He had no home to offer her, nothing to give her but his physical presence. He couldn’t even promise to help her keep her child, for if her father followed through on his threat to summon them to court, he had no proof of his paternity.

All he had was a yearning desire to be the man who protected her, not just from opportunists but from day-to-day hardships. He wanted to truly be Oliver’s father, not just in the evenings, or when it was convenient to Elizabeth.

He ought to be able to give her a home, instead of the cheap rooms she currently leased, and ensure her happiness was never threatened again.

But he had nothing but his yearning. That and a deep, unwavering fear that he could never give her even half of what she deserved.

He skipped breakfast the next morning so he could avoid Lady Trestin’s probing gaze. He avoided Elizabeth’s room and went straight down the stair. Trestin stood ready in the foyer, hat in hand, gloves pulled tight. Con’s own coat was cut smartly and his gloves fit like a second skin. Yet he felt gauche and disordered next to Trestin.

It amazed him that Montborne, who went about his entire life willy-nilly, had suffered Trestin’s confidence-smashing composure at all.

“I’ve had a horse saddled from my stables,” Trestin said. “I don’t suppose you meant to ride one of the ones you brought.”

They were Elizabeth’s horses. Con had no idea if either of them were fit for riding. He donned his hat and shrugged as if he didn’t feel slapped across his cheek. “I didn’t have a plan.”

He followed Trestin out to the steps the moment a footman drew the door open. Two horses stood seemingly at attention at the bottom of the granite staircase. Con was no judge of horseflesh, but they looked to be healthy and sturdy and drab. Nothing like Elizabeth’s shiny, sleek grays. Despite feeling like a failure for his own lack of a stable, pride welled in him at the evidence of her accomplishment.

“Good.” Trestin approached the larger of the two horses and reached for the flat pommel. “It’s a long ride out, and the land is rocky. I much prefer you on a nag that knows the terrain.” He pulled himself up and threw his leg over the horse’s flank.

Con looked about for a mounting block. “Are you always like this?” He meant to sound tongue-in-cheek, but fell far from the mark. It didn’t help that he had three older brothers, or that he was feeling so dashed incompetent.

Lord Trestin looked up from his pommel sharply, then to Con’s relief, grinned. “Unfortunately, yes. I’ve been told I’m rather awful.”

“By Montborne?” Con led the horse to the stairs and attempted to leap at the beast from the third one up. The horse skittered, but Con caught the pommel and hefted himself up.

“My wife. And, to be honest, my sisters. Hie!” Trestin kicked his heels and flicked the reins. He shot off down the drive.

Con mimicked him with a lot less sureness, only a little sore that he hadn’t been afforded the chance to agree with Trestin’s wife.

They set out with a jarring pace that had Con’s brain banging against his skull for the better part of an hour. It wasn’t that Con never rode. It was just that he liked to walk. Finally, they crossed into acreage he recognized as belonging to his family. He felt a tug strong enough to surprise him. He’d thought himself a Londoner, through and through. He didn’t have any ties to this godforsaken land, aside from a partial canal he’d never seen. Why the nostalgia?

They rode another quarter hour. A winding creek where Con and his brothers had played as pirates trickled around a jagged rock formation. Off in the distance, their ancestral pile stood in a crumbling state of wind-whipped limestone and overgrown foliage. Another stirring of wistfulness tightened his stomach. Montborne would need a very wealthy heiress, if the family seat was to be saved.

Con thrust the estate from his mind. He had his own expenses to contend with. Judging by the pristine condition of Worston Heights, Lord Trestin wouldn’t understand.

“I could use a good dividend, myself,” Trestin said, as if he’d read Con’s mind and decided to disabuse him of that notion. “It’s all well and good to marry money, but a man wants to make his own way.”

“I was just thinking Montborne ought to consider taking a walking purse for a wife,” Con replied, as if his pensiveness had been directed at his brother instead of himself.

Trestin laughed. “That place needs a lot more than deep pockets.”

Con looked askance at his host. “He needs to marry a strong woman as well as a rich one?”

“Or he could marry a strong, rich woman.” Trestin paused. “You could, too.”

This. This was exactly what he’d feared would happen. As if he didn’t have enough people telling him what to do, now he must suffer through Lord Trestin’s opinion. “I’m not looking to marry,” he said, hoping that might be the end of it.

Not that he believed it would be. He was quickly coming to learn Lord Trestin could be just as persistent as any of his brothers. “You don’t have to be looking,” Trestin replied. “Now, to be fully fair, I wouldn’t tell you to marry anyone. You have to decide that for yourself. But in your case, you must realize you will be notorious for marrying her. I feel I must say it so we are clear. You won’t ever be received the same. Her past won’t be forgotten, nor forgiven. Even if you can do both, they can’t.”

Con knew instantly who “they” were. But why hadn’t he realized he’d be a pariah? He hadn’t thought to marry her, that’s why. “How do you stomach it?”

A muscle twitched at Trestin’s jaw. “She’s worth it.”

Con knew exactly what he meant then, too.

They rode along until the land opened up to reveal several pieces of large equipment and two makeshift fences, one containing horses and the other, oxen. A wall of rocks had been formed against one side of the ditch, which ran with several feet of water. Con wasn’t sure what he was looking at.

Trestin gave him a brief tour, pointing out formations and features of the waterway that would be Devon’s first water connection to the Channel. Soon enough they were approached by two men, one clearly a foreman and the other some type of architect or engineer. After performing introductions, they all walked the canal for two miles, until Con knew the rock wall was actually a lime kiln and that it had taken three Acts of Parliament to finally receive all of the sanctions required to build the canal. He also learned that the canal was to cost upward of a quarter million pounds, assuming another lock wasn’t required.

He now knew what a lock was.

On the return trip to Worston, he felt much more optimistic. The first boat was scheduled to travel the canal in a little under a month. If that was successful, regular travel would open thereafter. He could begin to see a return on his investment within a year. By that time, the business with Captain Finn and Elizabeth’s father should have blown over. In the meantime, he could find a suitable house. He would tell Darius there would be no more handouts, for they were both grown men and Con had a new responsibility, to his mistress and son.

It was enough to make him restless through dinner. It was more than enough to send him directly to Elizabeth’s room the moment they were dismissed. She met him in the doorway this time, standing on tiptoe to greet him with a hot, open-mouthed kiss. He exhaled in relief, swept her into his arms and kicked the door closed behind them.

“I take it you were pleased with what you saw,” she said between kisses, her cool hands pressed to both sides of his face. He returned her kisses while his hands roamed her body, cupping her heavy breasts and flicking along the soft skin of her bare arms. His cock pressed incessantly against the fall of his breeches. God, but he was going to burn up before he managed to get her gown off.

And he would have her gown off. This time, they would be naked and damp. Tangled only in her sheets and their bare limbs. He set her away from him slightly and spun her around. He had enough experience to know roughly how these contraptions worked. But once the first button popped, to hell with it, he rent the rest with a firm yank. She yelped, but he was already pushing the dress and her petticoats down and pulling at the strings of her corset.

Finally, finally, he had her naked. She was glorious. Even before her confinement, she’d been a woman with breasts that could make a man weep, but now she was a goddess. Tiny, light blue veins crossed each one, culminating in a rouged nipple swollen into a succulent peak.

He leaned and took one into his mouth, reveling in the feel of it against his tongue, and slid his hand between her thighs. She was already wet for him. With a gentle stroke, her folds parted and she muffled her cry against the top of his head. She felt good and so, so tight. He buried his face between her breasts and drew a breath; thus fortified, he pulled himself away from her just for the time it took to divest himself of his own cloth constraints.

Blissfully, blessedly naked, he pressed himself against her softness. Her gray eyes were dilated and her lips parted just enough so he could see the pink tip of her tongue. Her tongue. He slanted his mouth across hers and delved in, urgent and eager yet measured, sucking on her full bottom lip and tracing her teeth. He wanted her everywhere. To taste her and feel her and—

“Oh, God,” he said as she wrapped her hand around his length. A droplet formed against her belly and he smeared it as he pressed harder into her hand. He opened his eyes and saw her watching him. Arousal leapt through him. His cock grew even harder and his balls pulsed with an ache to spend into her hand.

No.

He started to inch their way to the bed, but she suddenly became immovable. Before he could fully understand her intent, she spun him around and pressed her palms to his chest. Obediently, he sat back onto the bed. She spread her legs around him, opening her folds wide against his cock, and draped her arms over his shoulders. This time, she delved into his mouth. Taking.

He could stand her torturing him no more. He positioned himself at her opening, then pulled her hips forward. She refused to slide onto his cock. Instead she forced his shoulders back onto the mattress. She shimmied over his hips and straddled him. He cried out with satisfaction as her weight fell on top of him, plunging her onto his member.

She leaned over him with both arms braced by his shoulders. His cock pulsed inside her. With her breasts heaving above his face and her dark hair loose and flowing, curling around her upper arms and sticking to her nipples, once again he was struck by the idea she was a goddess. She was going to make him come, and she wasn’t even moving.

“Very well,” he said, dropping his hands from her hips. “I surrender. Have your way with me, vixen.”

Her lips curved into a smile. Slowly, she rocked against him, giving him just enough to drive him completely mad. Her rhythm picked up speed as she lost interest in him and focused on her own pleasure. He could feel her satisfying herself on him, knew it through the slightly ill-timed pace of her hips grinding against his, as if she twisted just a bit here and just so there to bring herself to the highest possible climax. It was erotic as hell.

When she fell forward onto her hands again and ground hard onto his length, he could hold himself back no longer. “Constantine!” she cried in a half-whisper as he grated his hips into hers. “Oh, God, oh, please, please—”

“Please what?” he rasped. He wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. God, she felt good. She felt exceptionally good—

“Now!” she cried, digging her fingernails into his shoulders at the same time she thrust her hips down as hard and deep as if he’d driven into her himself. He pulled her to lie atop him and exploded inside her depths. His lips found hers and he ravaged them, heedless of any skill, desperate to taste her as he lost himself inside her.

She kissed him back just as insistently and contracted around him, working him, until he’d spent his last drop.

I love her.

Those three words sent panic rushing through him. She nestled into his neck, unaware of the torrent overtaking him, and he gathered her into his arms. He drew slow, deep breaths and tried to calm himself. He wanted to be with her. He was with her. Wasn’t their current arrangement enough?

What more was there?

Did he really need to marry her? But he didn’t let the question hang in the air before he answered it. He needed to know she was his. Forever.

Could he marry her? That was a different question. Cavorting in public with one’s mistress flouted convention. Marrying her positively smacked it with a glove. At least one thing had turned in his favor. He no longer needed to worry that he would be viewed as her expensive plaything. Proceeds from the canal could make him very rich indeed.

Meaning he might have his place in Society at last. He could be more than just the fourth Alexander boy. The third heir. The spare to the spares. Was he willing to lose his respectability to be with her? Was Trestin right?

Was she worth it?