The Secret Seduction: A Steamy Regency Novella Read online

  Charlie Lane

  The Secret Seduction

  A Steamy Regency Novella

  Copyright © 2020 by Charlie Lane

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Charlie Lane asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  First edition

  Cover art by Holly Perret

  Editing by Krista Dapkey

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  To Brian, my unexpected hero.

  Contents

  Acknowledgement

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Charlie Lane

  Acknowledgement

  I could not have produced this book without the legions of authors whose writing inspired me. So, to all the romance writing warriors out there—thank you for being so kick ass, for pushing boundaries, and for teaching me that vulnerability is a strength and that love is the greatest literary theme.

  To my critique partner, the talented romance author Rachel Ann Smith, I owe so many, many cookies. Rachel, you have a keen eye, and your love of the genre ensures I’m writing—hopefully—words that others will love. Anyone reading this: check out her books on her Amazon Author Page!

  I’d also like to thank Krista Dapkey from KD Proofreading for her masterful help polishing this book and Holly Perret for the gorgeous cover.

  Most importantly, without the patience and encouragement of my husband and son, this book and all others would not be possible.

  Chapter 1

  Miss Allison Shropshire hid a yawn behind her hand. Would her mother’s weekly luncheon never be over? The room buzzed with conversation about fichus—fichus!—and despite having taken a seat at the edge of the parlor, she couldn’t escape the tedious talk. If only someone would say something interesting, she’d have a clue as to who had been leaving forbidden books behind every Wednesday afternoon.

  Allison shook her head. It couldn’t be any of the assembled guests. Ladies seriously interested in the shape and structure of fichus would not be scandalous enough to defy Allison’s mother’s ban on all books of the horrid or gothic sort.

  Allison strained to hear the conversation, hoping for clues as to her book patron’s identity.

  The Marchioness of Hemsworth, famous authoress of the revered Lady’s Guide to Moral Rectitude, sat in a throne of a chair amidst her many admirers. “But a good, heavy wool fichu, my dears, is worth its weight in gold.”

  The young ladies circled around Lady Hemsworth tittered their agreement.

  Disappointed at the tittering, and thus the lack of clues, Allison yawned again, raising her hand to hide her boredom.

  But not quickly enough.

  The only male voice in the room whispered near her ear, “Are you fatigued, Miss Shropshire?”

  Gah! How had Lord Trevor gotten behind her without her noticing? Hmph. She wouldn’t look at him. He didn’t merit her attention.

  The back of her neck warmed with the rush of an exhalation. “Can I be of service in any way?” Lord Trevor whispered near her ear.

  He wanted to help. Of course. Predictable, he was. But why must he speak so close to her? She wasn’t deaf, and his lips had all but brushed the sensitive lobe of her ear. Surely, he hadn’t meant to do that. He’d never presume such close physical proximity. And especially not with her.

  Not the elegant, the courtly, the perfect, the boring Earl of Trevor, Lady Hewsworth’s saintly son.

  His breath tickled her ear once more. “Miss Shropshire, is anything amiss?”

  Allison waved him away and felt his body straighten behind her. “I’m perfectly fi—” A yawn cut her words in two. “Fine. Perfectly fine, Lord Trevor.”

  “Excellent.” His single-word answer clipped the air into pieces around it.

  “Boring.”

  He leaned toward her again, and a shiver shot through her. Flustered, she cleared her throat.

  He chuckled. Did he? It sounded more likely an extended grunt of disapproval. But there! Again—a chuckle! “You said something about boring.”

  Oh, bollocks. She’d spoken out loud, hadn’t she? “Umm … fichus. Fichus are boring.” She looked over her shoulder at him. Brown, blinking eyes. Boring. Brown hair, perfectly in place. Boring. Yes, he stood taller than most men, and true, his frame pleased the eye. Some called him handsome. Others swooned at the sight of him. But his bland visage? Allison saw it for what it was. Boring. She sighed and turned away from him.

  “Fichus?” he asked. He was persistent, wasn’t he?

  “The topic of conversation, my lord—fichus.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Now, the word itself is funny, but as a conversational topic, it lacks.”

  “Oh? What does it lack?”

  “It just … lacks!”

  “Ah. Of course.”

  Couldn’t he do any work to keep up his end of the conversation? If he insisted on speaking to her, he owed her that much. It was part of the social contract his mother held so sacrosanct, after all, and wasn’t he the model man of his mother’s book? What had it said? Oh, yes. There was “no more saintly man alive than Lord Trevor, whose angelic attitude, beatific behavior, and courtly comportment serve as a shining example of manhood to the men of England and beyond.” Allison remembered the sentence because of the alliteration. Hard to forget, that. She suppressed a groan. No worse book existed on the face of the earth than the Moral Guide, and no worse pair crowed over London drawing rooms than the authoress and her boring son.

  And yet, Allison’s mother praised Lady Hemsworth more than the rest of the woman’s acolytes combined, and Allison found herself shackled to the weekly Moral Guide luncheon her mother hosted.

  “Lord Trevor! Oh, Lord Trevor!” Lady Ann Harrington minced their way. She was definitely not Allison’s book fairy. In fact, Allison wouldn’t be surprised if Lady Ann thought the only book in existence was Lady Hemsworth’s Guide.

  Allison would have to talk to her now. “Bollocks,” she sighed.

  Lord Trevor’s fingertips lighted on Allison’s shoulder. “Miss Shropshire? Did you speak?”

  Apparently, she had. Why did he bother her so? And touching her shoulder? According to his mother, the proper gentleman never so much as brushed against a lady without her father’s permission. Allison gave his hand a scathing glance then raised her haughtiest glare to him. “I merely cleared my throat, my lord.”

  He removed his hand as gently, as imperceptibly, as he’d placed it upon her, and she turned back around to Lady Ann, who completely ignored her.

  She honed in on Lord Trevor like he was the last glass of tepid punch at the last hour of the last ball of the season. “Lord Trevor!”

  “Yes, Lady Ann?” Lord Trevor rumbled from behind Allison’s chair. He bowed slightly but stayed put, keeping Allison and
the chair between himself and Lady Ann.

  “Do you believe your mother is correct, Lord Trevor? About fichus?”

  Allison couldn’t help it, she looked up into his face.

  He blinked down at her. “You were really talking about fichus, then?”

  Allison grinned wickedly. He truly hadn’t been attending his mother’s lecture, then? A crack in his perfection. Interesting.

  Lady Ann acted as if Allison’s body wasn’t immediately between her and Lord Trevor. “What say you, Lord Trevor?” Lady Ann insisted. “Is your mother correct? Should they be sturdy things? Or do you prefer the more transparent type?”

  Did Lady Ann honestly believe the man would disagree with his mother? Ha!

  Lady Ann cut a trio of girls across the room a sharp look. “Miss March is of the mind, if you can even entertain the idea, fichus are not even necessary! Can you believe it? Her breeding shows. If you’ve lived in close proximity with the militia your entire life, you’re bound to lack …” she waved her hand in the air as if searching for the right word, then sighed, “quality.”

  Allison bristled. She’d not followed her father from camp to camp with the army as Miss March had, but they shared a similar background. There existed only one real difference between them—Allison’s father had been ennobled and Miss March’s had not. Allison straightened her shoulders and folded her hands in her lap. “What do you mean, Lady Ann?”

  Lady Ann’s eyes widened, and she looked down at Allison for the first time. “Oh, dear me, Miss Shropshire. I did not see you there.”

  Ha! Unlikely. Allison waited for an answer.

  “You’re an exception, of course. The king has recognized the superiority of your family’s character if not its bloodlines.”

  Allison gritted her teeth. “The king has recognized my father’s valiance. Nothing more. Miss March is lovely. And intelligent. Superior in every way.” As far as Allison knew, at least. She’d never actually had a conversation with Miss March. But she wasn’t going to let Lady Ann abuse the girl. “Besides,” Allison said, attempting a levity she did not feel, “I quite agree with her about fichus.”

  Lady Ann gaped at Allison’s open defiance, looking for all the world like a caught fish.

  Confidence soaring, Allison turned to Lord Trevor, whose silence throughout the exchange revealed his lack of true gentlemanly qualities, like gallantry. Of course, he agreed with Lady Ann. He didn’t have to speak for Allison to know that. Nevertheless, she’d poke him. Metaphorically speaking. She flashed him a challenging smile. “What are your opinions on fichus, my lord?” Let him speak ill of Miss March! Just let him!

  He cleared his throat. “I … uh …”

  Allison would bet all her pocket money he didn’t even know what or who a fichu or Miss March was. Her smile broadened. “Yes, Lord Trevor?”

  “Young ones!”

  Allison snapped forward, training her grin into the most serious mien she could manage.

  Lady Hemsworth strode forward “Young ones!” Her book forbade young ladies to speak above a modest whisper, but she thought nothing of booming out across a room whenever she pleased. “It’s such a shame, and I know we all grieve, but another luncheon has passed, and we must get home, my dear boy.” She held out an arm to Lord Trevor.

  He dutifully took it. “Yes, Mother.”

  They were leaving, finally. The meetings were always tedious, but today had been worse than usual. Because today she had a plan, and the meeting had to end to put her plan in motion.

  The guests bustling out the door meant the time was now. Allison jumped up to escort her mother to the vestibule to see their guests out, as they did every week, then sank back down to the chair. “Oh!”

  “What is it, dear?” her mother asked.

  Lord Trevor abandoned his mother’s arm and strode toward her. “Are you well, Miss Shropshire?” He knelt before her, searching her face. “You’ve been odd all day.”

  Allison swallowed a sigh. Lord Trevor insisted on making a nuisance of himself it seemed. If she’d been odd, it wasn’t for him to notice! She waved his worry away. “I do feel a tad ill. Please, excuse me. I think I should retire to my room. I’m sorry I will not be able to see you out, Lady Hemsworth.”

  The authoress huffed. “A proper lady puts her social obligations before all else.”

  Allison screamed inside. “Yes, of course, my lady,” she replied demurely. “It’s just …” She puffed out her cheeks and wrapped her arms around her waist, pushed the kneeling, frowning Lord Trevor away, and shot to her feet. She swallowed hard, allowing a hiccup to escape. “I really do not feel well at all. I’m not sure that last biscuit agreed with me.”

  Lady Hemsworth’s eyes bulged, and Allison took the opportunity of her shock and disgust to run from the room with a groan before the assembled company could tell laughter spewed from her lips, not something more unmentionable.

  She wasn’t sick to her stomach, but she was sick of not knowing the answer to the most pressing question of her life.

  Who left books in the parlor after the Moral luncheons?

  It had to be an attendee. But who? She’d find out today.

  Allison waited around a corner for the sound of the front door opening and closing, then she rushed back to the parlor. Hopefully, she wasn’t too late. Entering, she scanned the room. No books. She tossed pillows about, looking in the usual hiding spots. No books. She wasn’t too late. She knew the book fairy—as she’d begun calling the culprit in her journal—came back after the meeting instead of hiding the books surreptitiously during. But whoever it was hadn’t returned yet.

  What if whoever it was didn’t return at all? Bollocks!

  No, the book fairy would be back. She bolted to a large couch near the end of the room and crouched behind it. Hidden by the couch’s bulk, she ran through the likely suspects. Not Lady Ann, of course, or Lord Trevor or Lady Hemsworth. Lady Ann worshiped the religion of Lady Hemsworth’s Moral Guide, and Lord Trevor stood at the book’s center, its idol. A wallflower or two whose glazed expression Allison recognized could be her book fairy. The young Lady Penelope or Miss March, perhaps? Maybe, though she’d be shocked. Miss Alexander, then? She did have an older, rebellious brother who might not blink an eye at providing his younger sister with every manner of scandalous reading material.

  Yes, the book fairy had to be Miss Alexander. Once she discovered Miss Alexander leaving books, she’d make fast friends with her. They could talk about Clarissa and Pamela and Udolpho, trade gossip about Bryon and Caroline Lamb, and never talk about fichus, opaque or otherwise, ever again.

  “Hmph.” Opaque fichus. Really! That particular garment was saved only by its gauziness, a flimsy covering hinting at tempting morsels beneath. Allison inspected her own fichued bodice. True, her morsels were less than tempting, but perhaps without the fichu hiding them … she pulled at the offending garment until it came untucked. A bit better. Yes. Without all that fabric hiding the view, her morsels looked plumper—

  A noise turned her attention away from her bosom.

  This was it! What she’d been waiting, crouched, for.

  Oh God, how long had she been crouched? Her leg muscles burned. She lifted her head, attempting to peek over the couch to see who had entered the room, but it was too high. She worked her muscles, but her aching knees protested. “Gah!” she cried, tumbling to the floor. She closed her eyes tight. She’d been low enough to the floor already, so the fall hadn’t hurt, but she heard footsteps rushing her direction. The book fairy approached. The sound of footsteps rang louder in her ears, but before she could right herself—how embarrassing to confront her new best friend flat on her back like a stuck turtle!—the footsteps stopped right above her head. Allison opened her eyes.

  Lord Trevor frowned quizzically down at her.

  Lord Trevor was the book fairy.

  Chapter 2

  Carson looked down into the startled blue eyes of Miss Allison Shropshire and begged himself not to blurt out th
e words always on the tip of his tongue when near her tempting form.

  I adore you. Be mine.

  He could not be sure she was ready for such a declaration, and the confused furrow of her brow supported his theory. If she was perplexed to see him in her parlor after he should have already left, he was puzzled to find her on the floor behind a rather large, rather hideously pink couch. Clarification could wait though, because the lady, lying flat on her back and blinking blankly up at him, obviously needed help.

  He hid the book he held in his left hand behind his back and crouched down nearer to her. “Are you hurt, Miss Shropshire?”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she cautioned. “Bad for the legs.”

  “What is?”

  “Crouching. It’s how I came to be sprawled on the floor as you see me now.”

  He held out a hand. “I thought you were indisposed. Why are you crouching in the parlor?” She didn’t look sick, though a faint red blush crept up from her bodice and spilled across her cheeks. Hadn’t she been wearing a fichu earlier? His gaze dipped, and he shifted uncomfortably at the sight of her plump breasts almost overflowing her bodice. Right. Maybe mother had a point. Stout fichus were moral necessities.

  Miss Shropshire took Carson’s hand, allowing him to pull her to her feet, but she let go immediately and straightened her skirts.

  “A temporary indisposition. I’m fine now. Besides, I can do as I wish in my parlor.”

  Temporary? He’d bet his favorite épée it had been a fake indisposition. “Including crouching, Miss Shropshire?”

  “Just so. But I crouched only out of necessity, in order to fulfill my true goal.”

  “Oh?”

  Allison pulled herself up straight. She was tall, and she made use of her height to look, almost, down her nose at him. Adorable. “I was waiting for you,” she announced.

  Carson wasn’t sure he’d ever heard sweeter words. She waited for him. She wanted him. His groin tightened, and heat flushed through him. He ached to take her in his arms, but not yet. He had to be sure. “What do you mean?”