The Seduction of Sebastian Trantor

  A hairdresser, after all, was one of those people one didn’t truly see. They came, they did one’s hair, they went—and had no other connection to their clients’ lives.

  But although she hid her interest well, Tabitha was certain Elaine Mackay drank in every detail she revealed.

  She knew it was a ploy, a staged act—not real—yet in thinking ahead, imagining how she would feel when the demand arrived and threatened her future with Sebastian . . . she felt nauseous.

  As if she felt truly threatened . . . as if she truly had a future with Sebastian. . .

  Oh, God. She truly did want a future with Sebastian.

  Elaine was busy with the back of her head.

  Shocked by the insight, nearly frantic, Tabitha consulted her true feelings . . . Her heart sank.

  How had this happened?

  But then Elaine straightened. Tabitha hurriedly bundled the startling truth from her mind and plastered on a suitably vacuous smile. “It looks lovely. I adore those bouncy little curls on top.”

  With a smile and a few words, Elaine encouraged Tabitha’s focus on her creation.

  Five minutes later, Elaine packed her implements. Tabitha rang for Tilly, who appeared and briskly escorted Miss Mackay downstairs.

  Reseated on the dressing stool, but now facing the open door, Tabitha waited until she heard the front door shut, then slumped back against the dressing table. “You can come out—she’s gone.”

  Stokes came out, followed by Sebastian.

  Stokes nodded approvingly at her. “That was an excellent performance, Miss Makepeace.”

  Sebastian’s approbation shone in his eyes. “An inspired performance.”

  Tabitha felt wrung out, but manufactured a smile. “Thank you.”

  “Now all we have to do,” Stokes said, “is wait for Miss Mackay to take the bait.”

  Tabitha smiled into Sebastian’s eyes as they circled the ballroom in Gerrard House to the strains of their engagement waltz. “I can’t quite believe we’re doing this.” Couldn’t believe how genuine it felt, how much she wanted it to be real.

  “We are—and if I say so myself, we’re highly convincing.” His eyes locked with hers, his lips lightly curved, he whirled her swiftly—exhilaratingly—through the turn at the bottom of the long room. As they precessed back up the polished floor, other couples joined them—Ro and Lydia, Sebastian’s brother Thomas and his wife, Estelle, who had arrived in London only the previous night. Tabitha’s parents joined in, then a host of guests stepped out; two minutes later the floor was crowded.

  Sebastian slowed their progress so they merged with the other couples.

  Tabitha forced her thoughts back to their charade. “We survived the dinner better than I expected. Coping with our families was one thing, but keeping our facade intact before the grandes dames . . . I wasn’t sure we could pull that off.”

  “But we did, and not one of them doubted. I overheard several say what an exceptional couple we make.”

  “I hadn’t expected they’d all be so interested in my imminent nuptials, but if anything, their avidity is even greater than it was with Lydia and Ro.” She lightly grimaced. “I suppose because they’d given up hope of me ever marrying.”

  Sebastian caught her gaze, held it.

  She got the impression he was considering what to say, frowned lightly. “What is it?”

  After a further moment of hesitation, he said, “I admit it’s necessary for us to put on a good show—to give everyone what they expect to see—but there’s no reason we shouldn’t enjoy the moment, exactly as if it were real.”

  Something inside her quivered. “But it’s not.”

  “It’s as real as we wish to make it. Tonight, we’re an engaged couple.” He glanced at the hand she had resting on his shoulder. “You wear my ring, and I think—” He broke off, then smiled and met her eyes. “I think you’re the most mesmerizing lady I’ve ever had the pleasure of holding in my arms.”

  “Oh.” She couldn’t deny the frisson of delight that shot through her. As it faded, she lifted her head. “You’re right. We should enjoy tonight for what it is, and leave tomorrow and whatever comes for tomorrow.”

  “Precisely.” He gathered her in for the next turn. As they emerged from it, he murmured, “Incidentally, don’t be tempted to dance with Freddie. He has two left feet and will almost certainly tread on your hem.”

  She laughed, and accepted his advice, let the role she’d agreed to play take hold—and for that one evening gave herself over to being . . . the lady Sebastian wanted in his arms.

  Sebastian eventually had to yield to the press of requests and allow other gentlemen to dance with his betrothed. The degree of discipline he had to exercise to smile and permit it was merely the latest symptom of his evolving possessiveness—an emotion of which he was increasingly aware.

  He made an effort not to stand and brood, or, worse, glower, and forced himself to make a circuit of the room, stopping to chat with various guests, as he suspected he should. His aunts were thrilled. Tabitha’s parents were smiling. Her sister Lydia beamed and kissed his cheek—then whispered that she hoped he would triumph.

  As the look in her fine eyes conveyed that she understood his true goal was to convince Tabitha to marry him, he took her encouragement as a good sign.

  Despite his good intentions, he’d come to a halt by the side of the room, his gaze fixed on Tabitha as she whirled about the floor in the arms of some dandified sprig, when Robert Gerrard—Viscount Gerrard, or Ro as the family called him—strolled up. Halting beside Sebastian, he, too, looked out at the dancers. Said, his deep voice low, “Mr. and Mrs. Makepeace explained the situation—your novel tack to winning Tabitha’s hand. I feel compelled to wish you luck—and to tell you that if you hurt Tabitha, I will hurt you.”

  Sebastian, his gaze still on the fiery head of his betrothed, merely raised his brows. “If I hurt Tabitha, I hurt myself even more.”

  Ro turned his head and looked at him.

  Sebastian obligingly glanced his way, saw his putative brother-in-law’s eyes widen slightly, then Ro’s lips curved and he inclined his head. “Good answer.”

  They both looked back at the dancers, at Tabitha.

  “Incidentally,” Ro said, his tone warmer, conversational, “Lydia thinks your quest is highly romantic. Me, I’d call it as eccentric as anything any Makepeace ever did—putting the betrothal before the wooing.” He caught Sebastian’s gaze, tipped his head to him and grinned. “Welcome to the family.”

  “Thank you,” Sebastian dryly replied. “I’ll do my poor best to fit in.”

  Chapter Six

  For the next four days, they played the part of a rapturous, newly betrothed couple—a necessary strategy to ensure Elaine Mackay had good reason to act. They were seen at the most select balls every night, and strolled in the park at least once a day, receiving the accolades of their peers and the blessings of the most haughty of the ton’s matrons.

  But the grandes dames kept their eagle eyes on them. Strolling beside the Avenue on Sebastian’s arm, Tabitha leaned close to murmur, “It’s as if they want to ensure there’s no backsliding.”

  She straightened, after a moment added, her tone cooler, “I wonder what they’ll say when we cry off.”

  Sebastian glanced at her, then covered the hand resting on his sleeve, squeezed lightly. “Let’s go for a drive—there’s something I want to show you.”

  Raising his arm, he signaled to his tiger, who’d been holding the black gelding harnessed to his curricle.

  Lengthening her stride to keep up with his increased pace, Tabitha glanced at his face, saw determination of a sort she couldn’t place in his features. “What is it, this thing you wish to show me?’

  “You’ll see when we get there.” He briefly met her gaze. “It’s a recent acquisition on which I’d like your opinion.”

  As he clearly didn’t wish to tell her more, she held her tongue and let him help her up into the curricle. He joined
her on the box seat. The diminuitive tiger swung up behind as, with an expert flick of the reins, Sebastian set the black pacing.

  He drove out of the park, then tacked through the early afternoon traffic. He turned up Orchard Street, then continued northward along Baker Street. Far ahead, beyond the end of the street, Tabitha could see the greenery of Regent’s Park. She glanced at Sebastian curiously, but he was busy managing his horse; it didn’t seem wise to attempt to probe.

  Eventually, he turned into the carriage drive that circled Regent’s Park, veering left along the facade of the various recently completed terraces.

  To her surprise, he slowed the curricle, easing the carriage into the elegant curve of Nash’s celebrated Sussex Place. Sebastian halted the curricle outside Number Twenty. Handing the reins to his tiger, he stepped down to the gravel, then rounded the back of the curricle to hand her down.

  Her hand in his, he pushed open the wrought-iron gate and led her up the path to the front door.

  A cherry tree wept blossoms in the narrow front garden. She looked up at the elegant lines of the facade. “Who lives here?”

  Then she realized he’d pulled a key from his pocket. Fitting it to the lock, he glanced back at her. “I do.”

  He set the door open, then waved her through. Surprised, she stepped across the threshold into a narrow, airy hall lit by a skylight high above. The floor was all polished boards; her footsteps echoed. She turned to face him as he followed her in, shutting the door behind him. “I thought you lived at your brother’s house while in London.”

  He pulled a face. “I did. Thomas and I originally thought that, as we both spend at least half the year in the country, we could share the ancestral abode while in town. But then he arrived with Estelle and their five young daughters. I did mention that the youngest was barely three months old, I believe?”

  She smiled. “You did.”

  “You’ll recall I also mentioned I’m something of a scholar, that I like deciphering old scripts and ancient codes?” When she nodded, he smiled wrily. “Once my nieces arrived, Thomas and I realized our idea of sharing the family townhouse wasn’t going to work.”

  He glanced around. “So I bought this. I haven’t had a chance to furnish it yet—I thought I’d wait . . . but here.” He waved her to the first door on the right. “I bought one piece, just to see how it would suit. Take a look, and tell me what you think.”

  She walked in. Her gaze was immediately caught by the elegant lines of the white marble mantelpiece framing the hearth directly opposite the door. From there, she looked up, walking further into the room as she took in the finely wrought decorative moldings on the cornices and ceiling. A delicate chandelier depended from the central rose.

  The floor beneath her feet was richly polished oak; the ceiling was painted white, as were the doors, architraves, and window frames. The walls were a soft dove gray; the color reminded her of his eyes.

  She swung to the window, and caught her breath. The long panes framed the weeping cherry tree and its pale pink and white blossoms, with the green lawns of the park across the carriage drive and the glint of light on the water of the boating lake in the distance.

  Her gaze lowered and fastened on the one piece of furniture in the room—a sculpted chaise longue. The honey tones of oak gleamed in the delicately shaped and carved frame. The upholstery was gray silk, a subtle shade darker than the walls, finished with white piping.

  Placed before the window, before that view, the chaise was perfection incarnate.

  “It’s . . .” She searched for words. “Exquisite.”

  Turning her head, she studied his face, then met his eyes. “You’re a man of many talents, Sebastian Trantor. Some of them unexpected.” She moved closer, raised a hand to his cheek. “The lady who marries you will be lucky indeed.”

  She’d never meant any words more.

  But she gave herself and him no time to dwell on them—to dwell on the fact that whoever he eventually married, it wouldn’t be her. That once Elaine Mackay made her demand and they trapped her retrieving the payment, their mission would be complete, and their betrothal would end.

  She kissed him. Boldly. With all the sultry passion he’d taught her she possessed. With an intent she hadn’t even paused to consider, but simply knew was right.

  With a desperation she felt to her heart, to her soul, throughout her being.

  If she was fated to never again know passion, then she’d take what she could, with him, now. And if it might be thought unfair to the lady whose drawing room this delicate, perfect room would eventually be, she nevertheless felt that hypothetical lady owed her this much. Owed her this afternoon of pleasure in return for letting him go.

  Setting him free.

  Sebastian found himself enthralled all over again. Caught in the web of her desires, trapped by his need to respond. To trace, to take, to savor.

  To pleasure her until she gasped and clung.

  To caress her until she writhed and demanded.

  Until, with her hair burning the gray silk of the chaise, she drew him down, took him in, and loved him.

  Drew him into her heat and saved him. Claimed him.

  Both of them wanted with a powerful need, but both strove to hold the urgency at bay. To instead take the slow path, and fill the afternoon with their sighs.

  To explore, and learn, and know. To take pleasure in giving, and in receiving.

  To challenge, then submit. To lead, and then to follow.

  To let the journey take them as passion rose and desire burned and need inexorably climbed.

  Until they surged as one and reached for the stars.

  And the spiraling glory caught them, shattered them, and drowned them in ecstasy.

  Later, Tabitha refused to let him speak. She had a dreadful suspicion that her desperation had been all too evident, that he’d seen too much, read too accurately, and now knew the panicked yearning in her heart.

  She didn’t want to hear excuses; explanations would be tedious.

  She didn’t think she could bear to hear him being kind.

  So wrestling with her petticoats, ignoring her half-dressed state, she put her foot down and imperiously declared, “Do not say a word. Don’t spoil the moment. Let it be what it is and accept it for that.”

  His breeches still unbuttoned, his shirt gaping, Sebastian met her gaze; his eyes were stormy—she could tell from the set of his lips that he didn’t agree with her decree. But she’d judged him correctly. He nodded curtly. “If you wish.”

  He looked down and laced his cuffs. She wriggled into her gown, then presented him with her back. “If you could help . . . ?”

  He humphed, and rapidly did up her laces. Five minutes later, they were back in the curricle and heading back to Bedford Square.

  Sebastian had hoped to make more headway toward his ultimate goal—perhaps even admit to his true agenda—but her decree . . . then again, he couldn’t regret those moments in what he already thought of as their drawing room. The house, the chaise, all had gone as he’d planned—better than he’d planned. He hadn’t imagined she would react as she had, that the place would move her in that way, but he couldn’t in all honesty complain. If nothing else, the interlude had confirmed just how perfectly suited they were in every way.

  He’d simply have to find another opportunity to break the news to her that their sham betrothal was to him no sham.

  He drew rein outside her parents’ townhouse. Leaving his tiger with the reins, he escorted Tabitha up the front steps. Biggs opened the door to them; Tabitha went in and he followed, intending to take his leave of her in the back parlor. And preferably steal another kiss while he was at it.

  But after closing the door, Biggs lifted a salver from the hall table. “A letter for you, miss—a boy brought it around an hour or so ago.”

  One glance informed Sebastian that the letter wasn’t merely another invitation card. Alert, he waited as Tabitha looked back, then retraced her steps.


  She lifted the letter from Biggs’s salver, then glanced at him. “Let’s go into the parlor.”

  He followed her down the hall.

  In the parlor she walked to the window, broke the seal on the letter, smoothed out the single sheet. Angled it to the light and read. She met his eyes as he joined her. “This is it—the blackmailer’s demand.”

  She offered him the sheet.

  He took it. The few lines required less than a minute to read. “We need to send for Stokes.”

  Tabitha crossed to the bellpull. When Biggs answered the summons, she asked for a footman to be sent to Bow Street.

  Stokes didn’t keep them waiting. Within the half hour he was standing on the parlor rug scanning the missive. “Tomorrow at ten in the morning.” His eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t give you much time to think.”

  “It was the same with Rothbury’s payments,” Sebastian said. “The first demand gives the target a day, but subsequent demands—which escalate in amount—give increasing notice.”

  Stokes nodded. “Because after the first payment is made, she’s sure the target is hooked, and she’s smart enough not to scare her targets off at the first jump—just look at this sum. A pony. Significant, but not that much when all’s considered. Tempting enough to think that the easiest way out is simply to pay.”

  “So.” Seated on the sofa beside Sebastian, Tabitha fixed her gaze on Stokes. “What will we do?”

  Stokes looked again at the letter, then at Sebastian.

  Sebastian turned to Tabitha. “We do precisely as she asks, and give her her due.”

  Chapter Seven

  The following morning at half past nine, Sebastian handed Tabitha down from her parents’ town coach at the eastern end of Fleet Street. St. Bride’s Church stood in a quiet court between two buildings to the south of the bustling thoroughfare. On Sebastian’s arm, Tabitha held up her skirts as they crossed the street, then entered the churchyard.