The Seduction of His Wife Read online

  Because this is now written down forever and ever and

  I love you, this one is all for you, Scotty-poo!

  Acknowledgments

  I couldn’t have finished this book if not for my partner in crime (and your bazillion read-throughs), Elyssa Papa.

  A special thank you for all my readers for this book and previous ones: Debbie Hajdukovic, Kristina, Maggie, Elena, Janga, and Santa. If I forgot anyone, it’s ’cause I’m terrible at remembering these things until it’s too late.

  Helen, you always offer a bright light in my not-so-bright moments. Monique, thank you for sticking it through the really sucky, to the less sucky, and finally to the—I knew you could do this. Holly—I really don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t harass you, sometimes on a daily basis!

  And the biggest hug and kiss go to my friend, Alex Borovoy, for reminding me when it was tough that writing is about rewriting. Without that mantra I wouldn’t have done what needed doing in this book that I will fondly remember as hell.

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Teaser

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by Tiffany Clare

  Praise for Tiffany Clare

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  You never write to me. I don’t even know your whereabouts in the world.

  1848 London

  “You can’t go in there with me, Grace.” Emma Hallaway-Mansfield, Countess of Asbury, tugged her sister’s hand away from the latch on the carriage door.

  Grace studied her with furrowed brows. “Emma, you asked me to come here with you. I won’t abandon you in your time of greatest need.”

  “You have no choice.” Emma had to go in there by herself. “If anyone should recognize us, our reputations will be in shambles. You can’t risk that.”

  “I don’t care. You’re my sister. You would never ask me to go into such a place on my own.”

  “Think of Abby, Grace. If my reputation is completely ruined, I’ll not be able to help find our sister a husband … you, on the other hand, will.”

  “You don’t know the things that happen in such a place.”

  “And how would you know?”

  Though Grace probably did know better than she, since her late husband had actually spent a great deal of time in her company. Which was more than Emma could say for her marriage. Emma refused to think about her marriage, or lack thereof, right now.

  She’d been sitting here too long in indecisiveness—she was already running a few minutes late—and their nondescript carriage was drawing unwanted attention.

  “Take the carriage around the square a few times. I won’t spend more than twenty minutes inside.”

  “I ought to come with you. Waverly had no right in courting me, and then to turn around and do this to you.”

  “Believe me, I know.” Emma sighed heavily and twirled her locket between her fingers as she tried to think of another solution. There was none. She was stalling at doing the inevitable. “But it can’t be changed.”

  She had to find Waverly—the lying scoundrel—soundly reprimand him for his audacity, and then demand that her portrait be returned. A portrait she should have never painted. Or at least never have sold, since the subject in the nude was her.

  With a deep breath, she tied a beaded velvet mask around her head to cover the top portion of her face. Not the greatest of disguises, but it would have to do.

  “If you’re not back in twenty minutes, I’ll have no choice but to follow you in,” Grace said.

  Kissing her sister on the cheek, Emma said, “Twenty-five minutes, no more.”

  Emma turned up the latch on the carriage door. When her feet were on solid ground, her stomach turned into a jumble of nerves. She gave one last look in the dark window of the hack before turning away.

  Night had fallen, but Haymarket was busy with foot traffic. She’d never been to this part of town. It was a place where gentlemen indulged in the sorts of wicked things a lady wasn’t supposed to have knowledge of. Emma hadn’t reached the ripe age of seven and twenty without discovering some of life’s idiosyncrasies, particularly where men were concerned.

  After a couple of deep breaths, her stomach steeled against her anxiety, and she moved grudgingly forward. Standing before a great wooden door with iron detail of a medieval design, Emma lifted the horned-devil knocker and rapped it once.

  A small peephole slid open and was followed by the gruff voice of a man. “Pass.”

  “Balderdash,” she answered.

  The door creaked open, giving way to a beefy man with bare arms bigger than the width of her cinched waist. Goodness, he was a veritable giant. Emma barely resisted the urge to take a step back and flee to the safety of the carriage. Scars marred one side of his face; his blue eyes were like shards of ice cutting through her as he gave her a once-over.

  She stood taller, showing her determination to enter a bawdy house, and met his rigid gaze with her resolute one. She would not be refused entry. Nothing would stand in the way of saving the loosening threads of her reputation.

  “Ain’t yer type o’ place,” the giant said.

  “I’m sure it’s not.”

  The giant took a step to the side, moving from the doorway with a firm scowl in place. “Don’t usually have yer kinder flashies. But yer gots yer pass.”

  Emma looked around the amber-lit foyer. Rich Chinese silks and heavy Italian brocades hung on the walls in a conflicting mishmash of sheer and woven materials. Foreign perfume lingered in the air; it was so powerfully sweet, it burned her nostrils and had her holding her breath intermittently. The hallway was narrow and had no rooms on either side. A set of darkly stained wooden stairs loomed directly in front of her.

  Courage, she told herself. She needed to pretend just for tonight that she had the courage to confront her nemesis. She couldn’t imagine what Waverly thought to gain in blackmailing her here. His purpose was obvious; the whys were not. Ascending the steps quickly, she opened another, less forbidding door at the top of the stairs.

  Emma’s eyes went wide at the sight before her. The place was hot and crowded with at least fifty people—more people than she had expected. The room was wide and open, sporting high ceilings that did not dim the ruckus of everyone talking at the same time. Settees and deep couches were set around the room for patrons to repose on. The men in attendance all seemed to be of means if their pressed, finely cut suits were anything to go by.

  Bawds mingled wantonly and freely amongst the crowd. Some were bare-chested while others wandered around without skirts and bodices to decently cover their unmentionables. Her hand clenched around her locket.

  A small twinge of comfort enveloped her on noticing she wasn’t the only one sporting a demi-masque. She wasn’t the only one who needed to protect her identity.

  On closer inspection of the debauched scene around her, patrons she thought were relaxing on the sofas were actually in coitus.

  Eyes wide with that revelation, Emma reeled and nearly
went back through the door to escape the scene unfolding around her. She stopped herself short of reaching that goal.

  She couldn’t leave. First, the direction on the letter had been a firm demand that she attend this place. Second, her sister would have taken the carriage around and would arrive back in fifteen minutes at the most. Emma would not stand in the streets of Haymarket. It wasn’t safe for a proper lady to do so.

  Taking a deep breath to prepare herself for the scene behind her, Emma tried to act as if she’d been in a place like this before and held her chin up unashamedly as she turned back around.

  A few naked women would not scare her away. She was no stranger to the female form, since she painted it on a regular basis. As for the men engaging in all sorts of wicked acts, she’d just have to pay them no mind.

  Despite the low décolletage of Emma’s pale cerulean evening gown, it was obvious she wore too many clothes not to be noticed by every man in the room. The other women of the upper echelon wore rich, dark tones, the gowns swept low off their shoulders. Emma was surprised their breasts didn’t spill right out of their dresses.

  Emma skirted toward the private rooms. Taking a deep breath, she pressed open the first darkly painted door to reveal a couple bent over a red velvet divan in the throes of passion. A fat, squat man heaving to and fro in some mockery of the primal dance held a fistful of yellow hair at the back of the woman’s head.

  Emma’s breath faltered, her will to do this sinking faster than a rock thrown in water. She shut the door with a snap, hoping she didn’t remember that horrible image for the rest of her days. Certainly married women didn’t participate in such untamed, wanton things.

  The letter had been clear that she was to find the fourth door on this floor. She wasn’t thinking clearly when she most needed her wits about her.

  Turning away from the line of doors, Emma looked about the room, hoping no one watched her. She hadn’t thought it possible for her day to get worse, but it had. Her eyes locked upon a gentleman she wished she could forget as easily as he had forgotten her.

  Putting her hand to her mouth, she hoped she didn’t lose her meager dinner as she gazed at the man who had abandoned her a dozen years ago. He was like a predator lying in wait, all sleek and masculine where he lounged. Her heart stuttered in her chest at the sight of him. Swallowing past the lump in her throat was near impossible.

  He wouldn’t recognize her. Or would he? She’d never have recognized him except for the fact that he looked like a younger version of his father.

  There was no mistaking that strong Roman nose of his, or the tussled waves of light brown hair that brushed the open collar of his shirt. His face was weatherworn and tanned, evidence he spent most of his days in the sun. The boy she’d known had grown into a distinguished gentleman.

  How she wished it wasn’t him.

  But there lounged her husband—whom she hadn’t seen in twelve years—with a bawd atop his lap.

  What a farce this was.

  Chapter 2

  Words escape me. Why is it I’m helpless but to bleed ink onto paper, even if I never deliver the final version of this letter?

  Her husband. Emma wanted to scream.

  A pained noise escaped her mouth before she could quell the hurt building in her chest. She dug her nails into her palm, hoping the physical pain would narrow her focus, erase the pain splintering her heart unbearably. It felt like the whole world was falling away from beneath her feet, ready to swallow her into a chasm of nothingness.

  Unlike the other men milling about the room, at least he had the decency to keep his trousers done up. His head tilted back to the sofa, his eyes were closed. He watched no one, not even his ladybird. She, however, was not idle. Her hands massaged his chest. His shoulders.

  Emma forced her feet to move back to the private rooms, but she couldn’t keep her mind on the task she was supposed to be focused on. It was impossible to keep from turning back and staring at her husband.

  She peeked around one of the supporting beams that shot through the floor before going into her appointed room. She trailed her eyes over his form one last time, absorbing every detail she could. He wore no necktie. His shirt gaped open where the buttons were released, revealing the hollow at his throat and the speckle of light brown hairs on his chest. A fresh dusting of hair stippled the lower portion his face.

  How humiliating!

  Her husband would rather have the company of a prostitute than spend any time with his wife. Hadn’t it always been that way? He had never wanted her. Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

  Then his eyes snapped open; his dark brown gaze stared straight at her, nearly pinning her to the spot, sending a shock through her system. It was not the gaze of the young man she remembered, but of a man who had lived. Really lived. There was a knowing expression in that gaze.

  Caught watching him, she turned hurriedly away. She was naught more than a well-dressed woman in a den of iniquity. He’d most certainly not recognize her after all their time apart.

  Opening the door to find the private room empty, she stepped inside to shut out the image of her husband.

  Emma leaned her back to the door and wedged her slippered foot tightly to the bottom to stop anyone from interrupting her moment of solitude. Her heart beat frantically at the fact that her husband had spied her.

  For now, there were more pressing issues to deal with than one wayward husband. Wiping her sweaty palms down the side of her bodice, she reached behind her and clicked over the lock. There was a letter sitting atop the divan with her name scrolled on the outside.

  She swallowed back her nervousness and sat heavily on the couch as she unfolded the paper and read its contents. Waverly wanted her back in Bakewell in three days’ time. Emma frowned. Why ask her to come here if he was only going to demand she be at her country estate?

  Was it possible that he’d had a change of heart? Certainly, he didn’t mean to reveal her portrait to the rest of the world without talking to her first?

  She didn’t know what to think or do. Knowing her sister wouldn’t have made her way back around yet, Emma waited ten minutes before she slid out of the room to head back to the entrance of the harlots’ den.

  Suddenly an arm snaked around her waist and pulled her aside. She squealed out a protest and began to fight whoever had grabbed her.

  When Emma looked up to the man who held her, she froze in his arms. Even her heart missed a beat at the realization that she’d been caught.

  Her husband’s expression was far from amused.

  * * *

  Swathed in blue silk and a felted black mask, Richard Mansfield, Earl of Asbury, could still make out the lady’s high cheekbones, round eyes, and kissable pouting lower lip. She was like Aphrodite elevated above the disciples surrounding her, ripe for plucking and bedding.

  There was no mistaking those luxurious blonde curls, or her tall, slender frame. He remembered her always being conscious of her height as a girl. Now she was cloaked in a confidence that had her standing tall and glaring back at him with rancor.

  Why, of all places, was his wife in a whorehouse?

  A wife he hadn’t seen in more than a decade.

  The moment she had come out of the private room, he had wrapped his arms around her waist to halt her.

  Emma tried to squirm free, so he held her more firmly. She was all soft, ripe curves pressed up against him, stirring his blood and awakening his body to a lust he’d never had for his wife before now.

  What in hell!

  “Unhand me, sir.” Her voice was pitched low, like the sound of a woman well tumbled and unused to speaking. Did she hope to disguise the true timbre of her voice, or was she worried they would be overheard?

  “I’m not fooled by your disguise.”

  Her gaze flickered to the open buttons of his shirt before veering off over his shoulder to the room beyond them as he forced her a step back and into the shadows.

  Her lips parted,
revealing the tip of her pink tongue; her pupils were dilated in a state of half euphoria. Maybe this type of jaunt onto the wilder, seedier side of life was a common occurrence. He was willing to show her just what kind of fun could be had in such a place.

  What if she’d come here looking for some company of the male persuasion? Why else would she be here but for that reason alone? That thought set a trigger off in his mind and forced him into quick action.

  Richard placed his arms on either side of her shoulders, his hands against the wall so she had no place to go, and stared into her green eyes.

  What man wouldn’t desire her?

  He nearly growled at the thought.

  Her slender form curved inward just the right amount at the waist. Her bosom was more than enough to fill a man’s hand. His own flexed against the wall in anticipation of doing just that.

  He leaned in closer, intent on figuring out her motives in coming here. Did she have an assignation tonight?

  Fool of him to think she’d not found the comforting arms of another man over the years. So why did that thought sit so uncomfortably on his mind now?

  With difficulty, he kept his hands pressed to the wall rather than somewhere else on her person. Like her breasts. He was helpless to stop his gaze from straying to the dip at her bosom. Though he liked what he saw, a little too much, he didn’t appreciate the fact that every other man in the room had the same glimpse of what she had to offer. This possessiveness over a woman was unlike him. Women were a means to an end. A passing amusement when needed.

  But Emma was his bloody wife. She belonged to him alone.

  “Do you want to tell me what you are doing here, wife?”

  “Leaving, if you don’t mind.”

  Defiance was clear in her stance as she lifted her chin in a haughty manner and glared at him. Not the cowering miss he remembered her to be.

  “What I mind is finding you here.”

  At least he blocked her from the view of other patrons. Her black-felted mask was a joke. How she thought to hide her true identity was anyone’s guess. He lifted his hand, ignoring her annoyed huff of air as he fingered one of the curls that had fallen free of her pins. He wanted to feel her hair splayed over him as she worked herself above him.