The Trouble With Seduction

Rebellious, Scandalous, and Irredeemable

Sarah, Lady Strathford is ready for a little harmless frivolity with a man of her own age and her own appetites… surely that’s not too much to ask! After the death of her beloved husband years before, Sarah is ready for an adventure… Enter the dashing, roguish – and baffling – Mr Cornelius Ravenhill.

Ravenhill, however, is not the gentleman he seems, and soon Sarah finds herself battling against the corrupt and harsh world around her as it threatens to destroy all she holds dear. The question is, will her seduction at the hands of Mr Ravenhill prove to be her savior or her downfall?

The Trouble with Seduction

Victoria Hanlen

www.CarinaUK.com

VICTORIA HANLEN

Award winning, historical romance author, VICTORIA HANLEN, has worked at a wide range of jobs, from fashion, to corporate business, to treading the boards of stage and professional opera. A lifelong writer, she once put her skills to use in PR and advertising. But the writing she enjoys most is dreaming up stories with happily ever afters. Victoria and her husband live in rural New England surrounded by a host of wildlife. For more, please visit her at:

http://victoriahanlen.com

https://www.facebook.com/VictoriaHanlen

https://www.twitter.com/VictoriaHanlen

Immense gratitude goes to my fabulous editor, Victoria Oundjian, for her patient guidance and for taking a chance on a new author. Many thanks goes to the very talented Carina UK team. You continue to amaze me with your brilliant, creative work.

To Ann Clement, Julia Gabriel, Anna James, Jael Wye, Jamie Beck and Jessica Trapp—thanks for the honesty, laughter and enthusiasm. It’s meant the world to me. I so appreciate the camaraderie and encouragement of the Connecticut Romance Writers of America.

I’m also grateful for my very supportive family. You are my moorings and inspiration.

Most of all, thank you dear reader for choosing to spend a few hours with The Trouble with Seduction. I hope Sarah and Damen entertained you.

To my husband.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgments

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Epilogue

Excerpt

Endpages

Copyright

CHAPTER 1

London, England, April 1855

Sarah Strathford brushed a pesky curl out of her eye and glanced at the clocks lining the shelves of her elegant boudoir. Their mélange of rhythms had gone from cheerful patter to nettles in her ears. Each tick taunted that her time had once again been appropriated.

Megpeas, her butler, appeared in the doorway. “My apologies, my lady…”

“I know, I know. Is my brother still here?”

“Yes, my lady. He and Lord Lumsley have made themselves comfortable in the parlor.” Megpeas’s stiff mask indicated they’d run roughshod over him again.

Sarah capped her fountain pen, slid her Mission of Mercy’s account ledger into her desk and tried not to frown at her butler. It wasn’t his fault this made the third time this week her brother and his boon companion decided to pop by. “Very well, I will see to them now.”

While descending the stairs, Sarah fumed over what this would do to her crowded schedule. Idle hands were the devil’s handiwork, but more importantly, being productive kept her mind from dwelling on uncomfortable subjects.

As a consequence, she did not like surprises. Especially surprise visits from her brother on the pretext of a friendly chat with his choice for her next husband. Hopefully, after a polite word or two, she could send them on their way.

When Sarah reached the first landing of the grand, heart-shaped staircase, she paused to gaze at the magnificent rotunda with the larger-than-life statue of David. The sight still took her breath away. Though not as large as Spencer House, Strathford Hall had many of the fine designs and architectural embellishments. Her dear Edward had bought her this lovely Mayfair home.

She breathed in the clean scent of beeswax and proceeded to the parlor door where she stopped again to smooth down the high collar of her black gown and compose herself. The sooner she said her hellos and goodbyes, the sooner she could get back to her list of tasks. She pushed open the parlor door.

Bear-grease pomade hung thick on the air. Her hand slid the short distance from her collar to her mouth to cover her cough.

“My dear, how lovely you look!” Baron Lumsley jumped to his feet, beaming.

Her brother, the Earl of Rollinson, soon followed, all smiles. He and his friend were a mismatched pair, Niles being tall and thin while Lumsley tended toward portly and barely reached his shoulders. Apart from that, their tailors had put them into similar light-colored jackets, plaid trousers and silk waistcoats.

The mirror over the fireplace immediately revealed her mistake. Heavens! No wonder they’d got the wrong impression.

Gracie, her lady’s maid, had been in a surprisingly good mood this morning. While she’d jabbered on about a yellow rooster and a donkey, she’d tamed Sarah’s blonde hair and curled ringlets down the sides of her face. The style rather flattered her. Something Sarah had told her repeatedly not to do. Flattering hairstyles, comely gowns and rouge had a way of putting her into all sorts of unwanted situations. Like now.

“Curls complement you, my dear,” Lumsley effused. He took her hand and placed a damp kiss on her knuckles.

He and Niles had been friends since her brother brought him home from Harrow during one of the holidays. From a round-faced youth, Lumsley had grown into a rather medium sort of man: medium height, medium features, medium build. Not bad… not good… just medium.

His one distinguishing characteristic – his slicked-down, medium-brown hair – had thinned, leaving a bald patch in back. The missing follicles appeared to have decamped to more fertile ground in his abundant muttonchops, which now framed his ruddy cheeks and met in a bristly mustache under his nose.

“How have you been, my lord?” She withdrew her hand and dried it on her skirt.

“Very well, thank you.” Lumsley’s broad grin showed the gap between his two large front teeth. “This may be rather last minute, but we were in the area and hoped you might accompany us to Berkeley Square for an ice at Gunter’s.”

Sarah tried to keep an equable expression as she gazed at her deceased husband’s little mind-puzzler contraptions sitting on the table in front of the sofa. Few guests could resist their allure and Niles and Lumsley had obviously been playing with them while they waited.

“I do appreciate the offer, but I have an appointment.” She almost added that even if she didn’t have an appointment, she couldn’t think of doing anything so spur-of-the-moment. She must place it on her schedule and mentally prepare.

“Ask them to wait until we return,” Lumsley wheedled amiably. “Or better yet, postpone it to another time.”

Sarah idly scratched her knuckles. “I probably shouldn’t.”

Outside, a furious storm of hammering commenced, rattling the parlor’s glass panes. The workmen had finished their noonday meal and with it went the blessed silence. She stepped to the window to see the journeymen tear into Strathford’s burned laboratory.

A whole other species of masculinity strutted below them – muscling heavy timbers and pieces of granite and brandishing large tools – a surprisingly fit lot and quite diverting for a widow of two-plus years.

Such manliness rarely made it into her limited circle of acquaintances… except for, well, the vexatious Mr Cornelius Ravenhill.

“Sit, then, and spend a few moments with us.” Her brother smiled and motioned for her to take a place on the couch next to his friend.

Sarah loved her brother and didn’t want to disappoint him, but it didn’t take a singular intellect to see he wanted her to marry his best friend.

Outside, a loud screech rent the air. She turned back toward the window in time to see a portion of the laboratory’s wall collapse onto Edward’s invention garden.

Lumsley strode to her side and whistled at the sight.

Sarah gazed down, heartsick. With his wonderful genius, her husband had designed a singular garden and populated it with his unique inventions. It had been the embodiment of everything Edward had been.

Three workmen crawled through the plume of dust spewing out of the new opening. Two more rolled wheelbarrows over the shattered memory fountain to shovel up the debris. A broken water pipe, now a small geyser, flooded what was left of the flower bed.

“This renovation appears quite the undertaking, my lady.” Lumsley turned to her brother. “Are you helping your sister with this project, Rollinson?”

“This is my project,” she piped up. “The rooms have needed repair for far too long. A blot on the neighborhood, I’ve been informed. I’m rebuilding them to suit my interests.”

“And you haven’t helped her, dear boy? For shame,” Lumsley chastised her brother. “She needs a man to control that army of workmen outside.”

“I’d hoped she would have chosen a husband by now.” Niles winked.

Their conversation faded to the background while Sarah considered the situation. As a young woman she’d been isolated and biddable, marrying two staid old men for her father’s convenience and peace of mind.

Lumsley could be an improvement in some respects. He was closer in age, she’d known him for years and he’d certainly fit in well with the family. But he reminded her of cold porridge. Nothing about him drew her. She gazed about Edward’s collection of small inventions and unique clocks working like delicate heartbeats on the shelves about the room.

Not one of them was ordinary or mediocre. Perhaps that was the reason why her husband so disliked him?

“You were always good at organization, Lumsley. Something I’ve admired about you.” Niles gestured to his friend. “He has the impeccable ability to immediately see where things need to be put to rights.” He swept his hand toward Sarah and raised his brows. “He could help you sort out all that rabble outside if you’d give him a chance.”

Her Aunt Eliza’s counsel came back to her. “Have courage, my dear. You are a widow of means, and now have the luxury to find your own happiness.”

How Sarah wanted to take her aunt’s advice. But the day-to-day responsibilities and realities of making her own way had begun to wear. She’d spent most of her adult years as a wife confined to a woman’s sphere. Doubts now crept in, questioning if she’d the fortitude to withstand her family and society’s pressure against remaining an unmarried woman.

She gazed down at the ruined garden and clenched a fist to her stomach. The sight worked on her like a punch to the solar plexus. Self-condemnation tumbled over her like a wave. If she’d been better at managing, Edward’s miraculous invention garden would still be in one piece.

An overpowering urge to hold and touch items Edward made for her became paramount. Her teeth ground together as she strode to the door. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, I’m not able to go with you today. Megpeas will show you out.”

“I say, Sis, getting away for a little while might be just the thing.”

She yanked open the door. “Unfortunately, I already have a very full day.”

Sarah nearly ran up the stairs and down the long hallway. Her shoes tapped on the marble slabs as she turned into a darkened corridor. Three rows of rectangular wooden moldings marched along the walls.

After checking up and down the empty hallway, she pulled a chain from under her collar. On it hung an ornate key. She counted to the middle fifth rectangle on her right, ran her finger under the lower left-hand corner, and fitted the key into the lock. Giving it a firm twist, the secret door swung inward. She quickly stepped through and relocked the door.

For Sarah, entering this plush, gilded room had been an escape from everyday life into a world of pleasure and sensuality. Sparkling red and gold veils filtered sunlight and shed an aura of fantasy across masses of soft furs and pillows. This had been her and Edward’s secret seraglio.

Slowly making her way across the soft sheepskin and llama hides, she touched the face of the court jester automaton Edward had designed for her. Polished music boxes lined a Chippendale bookcase. She lifted the lid on a mahogany and rosewood music box. The tinkling melody of Schubert’s ‘Near My Beloved’ began to play.

Humming along, she grasped the silver salver from the bedside table’s bottom shelf and set it on top, pulled back the red velvet and unveiled its contents. Special oils, redolent of lime, cedar and incense – still pungent after all this time – burst through the air and filled her senses.

Eddie, the Earl of Strathford, her second husband, hadn’t been what most considered physically attractive or possessed of a conventional personality, and in certain social situations he could be slightly awkward. None of these things mattered.

Though twice her age, she’d grown to treasure him for his good heart, his curiosity about the world and his sheer brilliance. How she had relished watching him create. Out of scraps of odds and ends he’d piece together the most miraculous inventions.

Sarah breathed in the fragrances and perused the salver of Edward’s toys like she would a tray of tasty treats. A smile worked its way across her lips. Oh, the wickedness of that man. Over the few short years of their marriage, dear Eddie had shown her what a creative inventor could do for a woman. Unfortunately, his inventions often took priority and his toys became her only bed partners. Perhaps she should see if they still worked?

Gliding a hand over a few of the devices, she paused above the ‘spine tickler.’ Then pressed her palm into its shiny ball bearings. Hmm. No. Maybe not.

This one, perhaps? Her fingers flexed over the ‘pony rocket.’ A particularly provocative memory locked her teeth, sending a zing through a molar. No. She didn’t trust herself with the ‘pony.’

Her hand grazed the slightly ribbed surface of the ‘Buzzy Bee,’ Edward’s redesigned version of le Tremoussoir. He’d painted it yellow and had given it to her for her twenty-fifth birthday. She picked it up, admiring its contoured design and perfect dimensions constructed just for her. The surface felt surprisingly warm, almost inviting.

Once more, for old time’s sake?

Sarah lay down on the bed’s soft fur, hiked up her skirts and, as she turned the key to wind up the device, read Edward’s inscription: THINK OF ME.

“Eddie. Dear Eddie, how I’ve missed you,” she whispered, as she pressed the button and smiled at the mechanism’s low zzzzzz.

The initial touch always startled. After a few moments, its buzzing vibration filled her nether regions with a tingling hum. She closed her eyes, concentrated on Edward’s sweet visage and let her imagination unfold.

Unbidden, instead of Edward, the handsome face and strapping physique of one extremely irritating dance partner surfaced.

Mr Cornelius Ravenhill.

She sank deeper into the furs and commanded his image to smile, only to realize she’d not seen him smile, merely glower disapprovingly. While they’d danced, she’d been agape at his good looks and manliness. He, on the other hand, barely said two words to her and kept his gaze pinned to the doorway. Rude lout. A little over a week had passed since, and she refused to give him even a second thought. How had that vexatious man snuck into her daydream?

The ‘Buzzy Bee’ bravely soldiered on, spurring her cleft into a delicious throb, making her hips quiver. Soon her sinews quickened, readying to find that sublime moment of bliss.

Tap, Tap, Tap.

Sarah grimaced and her eyes rolled back into her head. She barely heard the knock at the secret door as her inner muscles coiled and tightened toward that glorious peak.

Tap, Tap, Tap. “My lady. Are you in there?”

Her maid’s voice momentarily broke through the pleasurable sensation.

Sarah pressed the ‘Buzzy Bee’ harder against her – concentrating, clenching, feeling the deeper sensation drive tremors all the way down her legs.

Tap, Tap, Tap. “Please, my lady.”

Oh, for God’s sake. “What!”

Gracie called from the other side of the door. “One of the workmen found something in the laboratory’s ashes. The foreman thinks it highly important, something you must see.”

***

A few minutes later, Sarah limped through the curtain hung to block the dust and grime in Edward’s burned laboratory. A fine hum of frustration stiffened her spine. This day had been one interruption after another.

Several workers leaned on their shovels talking and laughing. In the corner, the burly carpenter swung a huge hammer into the wall, shattering the charred plaster. He bent over to inspect his work.

She stopped abruptly. Her eyes fastened on the two firm mounds of – Good Heavens! She spun around. Workmen stood about dawdling, inflaming her sensibilities to palpable aggravation. She pivoted again in search of the foreman. “I was told an item had been found, one I needed to inspect,” she announced to no one in particular.

“Yes, my lady,” a low rasp vibrated behind her.

She turned.

The carpenter mopped a sleeve over his forehead and slid a stub of pencil behind an ear. The movement drew attention to the flexed muscles outlined by his tight work smock. “It is over here, my lady.” In three long, languid steps he arrived at a worktable in the opposite corner.

Sarah followed, growing testier by the second.

Leaning forward, his broad shoulders crowded her against the table. His scent of soap and charred wood suffused the air. He pointed to what looked like a half-burned cord.

She clutched her high collar and sought to calm her clambering pulse. “What is this… thing?” The nearness of such an overtly virile male made her insides jumpy.

“A spent blasting fuse, my lady.” His voice lowered to a breathy scratch. “Fuses like this one are used in mines to blast out rock. Not the sort of thing generally found lying about stately mansions.”

“My husband was an inventor. He collected many unusual items for his contraptions.”

“Did his inventions include explosions?”

Not in the usual sense. She pulled at her collar. “I wouldn’t know.”

“This fuse was not totally destroyed in the blast.” He motioned to the charred walls.

The ominous sound in his voice made Sarah’s mouth go dry. “What are you saying?”

“It appears, my lady, your husband’s laboratory may have been purposely destroyed.”

“Is this what the foreman wanted me to see?”

“Yes, my lady. He has gone for the police.”

CHAPTER 2

Not far away, Damen Aloysius Ravenhill, eldest son and heir to Viscount Falgate, trudged down the dim, rock-lined corridor of Falgate Hall. The cold fortress remained as forbidding as ever. With each step, dread clawed deeper, forcing him to hesitate in the bedchamber’s doorway at the prospect of what he would soon find.

He took a step into the dark-paneled room. A mammoth four-poster bed dressed in a green canopy and intricately carved ebony bedposts stood in its center. At the head of the bed, Damen could barely make out a large, bowl-shaped wrap of bandages.

Viscount Falgate, his father, sat in a wheelchair at the side of the bed, hunched forward, gently holding a lifeless hand. Cornelius’s distinctive amber ring glinted on the hand’s little finger.

Deep bags spilled over the viscount’s prominent cheekbones. His once robust physique now appeared shrunken, desiccated to a bird-like fragility. Damen hadn’t seen his father since he’d visited Liverpool six months before. His decline verged on frightening.

Falgate glanced at him through puffy red eyes and croaked angrily, “I told you not to come.”

Damen had caught the first train to Falgate Hall anyway. Worry rode with him every twist and turn of the journey.

Heart heavy with foreboding, he took another step. Now he could see his battered, almost unrecognizable younger brother propped up against the headboard. From his eyebrows upward, layers of bandages circled his skull like a turban.

“Cory.” Damen barely recognized the tight rasp of his own voice.

His father swallowed audibly. “The villains tried to make it appear a mugging.”

“Who did this?”

With the briefest of shrugs, his father muttered, “Before dying, his footman said they’d been following a bawd when five ruffians attacked. He said Cory knew one of the villains. Our coachman found your brother and his footman the next morning in an alley behind the Mission of Mercy in St Gi—” A wracking cough stole his breath.

St Giles? Why was Cory in St Giles?

The last time he’d seen his brother had been in Liverpool five years before when he’d shipped out on a vessel bound for the Orient.

His father’s face contorted. “He’d barely been back in London two weeks.” After a moment, he regained control and turned to Damen, scrutinizing him. “Are there no barbers in Liverpool?”

Resisting the urge to rake his fingers through his long beard, he took halting steps toward the bed. He grasped the bedpost and finally let his eyes drift over his brother. If not for his occasional shallow gasps, Cory appeared a corpse.

Sentiment wrapped its talons around his heart and squeezed painfully. Had they used his brother’s head as a battering ram against a brick wall? His fists ached to pound the bastards into a bloody pulp. “Do the police have any leads?”

“I prefer they not be involved.” Anger vibrated in his father’s hoarse voice. His gaze drifted back to Damen’s beard, almost making it itch.

The police in St Giles had been an unscrupulous, overbearing lot when Damen was a boy. Clearly, his father still considered them corrupt. “Is there anything I can do?”

Anguish lined the viscount’s face as he shook his head.

“Why was Cory in St Giles?”

“Suspicious fires destroyed parts of our warehouses and properties. He’d been investigating them. I’ve lost the stamina to fight this.” His shoulders slumped. “If they’re not stopped, there’ll not be a pot left to pi—” He coughed deeply, dug into a pocket for a handkerchief and wiped his mouth.