A Season of Seduction.

Jennifer Haymore.

"I could stay here all night,"

Jack murmured against Rebecca's mouth.

She sighed, her lips barely moving beneath his. She clutched his arms; her fingers locked around his biceps.

"What is it?" He brushed his lips against hers in a sensuous glide. "What do you want?"

She stilled. It seemed she had stopped breathing. "I want you," she said simply.

He sat frozen. Stunned.

He'd sensed that she wanted him, of course. He hadn't expected her to say it, though-at least not this early. He'd planned to take all night to coax her free from her innate shyness, calming her, softening her, making her comfortable, willing. Making her not only want him, but need him.

Her voice fired his blood in a thousand different ways, but he couldn't submit to either her wishes or his body's demands. Not yet.

"Becky..." His hand slid down her neck, between her shoulder blades and lower, until it rested on the small of her back.

He did kiss her then. The tug of her hands on his arms was irresistible.

For Lawrence.

With deepest gratitude to my agent, Barbara Poelle, and my editor, Selina McLemore. Thanks so much for your belief in me.

Chapter One.

London.

November 3, 1827.

Tonight I will be his.

Becky closed her eyes as her maid, Josie, sprinkled rosewater on her hair, and a shudder spiraled up her spine. Jack Fulton. The dashing sailor who'd recently returned to London after many years at sea. Tonight would be the first time she'd touched a man intimately in four years. Tonight, she would give herself to him, wholly and completely.

She'd been acquainted with Jack for a month now, but she knew little of his true nature, and he knew little of hers. When they were together, they conversed easily about the past and the present, but they lived in the moment and never dug beyond the surface.

She preferred it that way. Nevertheless, there was something about him that made her yearn to burrow beyond his hardened shell and discover what lay beneath that rugged, handsome surface.

She shook herself a little to toss away the thought. Josie's round face scrunched in disapproval as a tendril of hair dislodged from Becky's coiffure, and the maid gave a long-suffering sigh before she went back to smoothing her mistress's hair.

Becky opened her eyes and stared into her friend Cecelia's dressing room mirror. It was hypocritical of her to want to learn more about Jack Fulton. She certainly didn't want him delving into her soul. She'd locked herself up tight long ago and never intended to reveal herself again. Not even to a lover. As long as she kept her heart safely guarded, tonight would set her free. Jack couldn't hurt her-she wouldn't allow that to happen. He could, however, release her from the lonely prison that had held her captive for years. He could make her feel alive again.

"You're thinking about something, Becky. I see it in your face."

Becky met her friend's gaze in the mirror. Cecelia, Lady Devore, clasped her hands behind her back. She stood in the center of the room, one of her guest bedchambers. Her white satin dress with its high collar and broad belt of embroidered crimson emphasized the slightness of her build, and the sweep of her chocolate-colored hair accentuated her elegant swan's neck and pointed chin.

Earlier this evening, Cecelia had fetched Becky from her brother's house on the pretense of taking her to the opera. But there would be no opera for Becky tonight. Instead, Cecelia would deposit Becky at a respectable hotel where she intended to have a not-so-respectable tryst with a seafaring rogue who possessed a hint of the gentleman. Or was it that he was a gentleman with a hint of the rogue?

There was no denying that Jack Fulton came from respectable stock-his father was one of the king's privy councilors, his eldest brother possessed parliamentary ambitions, and his middle brother was a captain in His Majesty's Navy. Jack wasn't at the pinnacle of the aristocracy, like Becky's family or even Cecelia's, but his bloodlines were quite dignified, indeed.

One look at him, though, and anyone could detect that there was something enticingly disreputable about him. An air of danger-of roguishness-that made Becky's pulse flutter and her limbs turn to mush. His looks appealed to her in a startling way. She was more familiar with the sleek, pale, soft bucks of the London ton, but Jack was suntanned, with a permanent crease between his eyebrows and lines fanning from the edges of his eyes that deepened when he smiled. His hair and sideburns were trimmed short and were a color of brown just a shade lighter than his eyes. His lips were light pink, and they had a wicked curve to them that matched the glint in his eyes. Together, those eyes and lips had featured in her erotic dreams for the past month.

Cecelia cleared her throat softly, jerking Becky from those scandalous thoughts.

"Yes..." Becky admitted slowly. "I am thinking about something."

Cecelia's dark eyes gleamed with understanding. Still, she wanted Becky to voice it. "Tell."

Becky glanced at her maid and dismissed her with a small movement of her hand. In complete silence but with a mulish pucker to her mouth, Josie corked the bottle of rosewater, set it on the table, curtsied, and went away.

When the door clicked shut, Becky said, "I think tonight is the night."

"Do you?" Cecelia's voice was soft. Satin rustled as she glided over the carpet, closer to the dressing table. "You've grown fond of our Mr. Fulton, haven't you?"

Resting her crooked arm on the shining oak surface of the dressing table, Becky wiggled her fingers. The last two fingers on her left hand tingled often, but she'd learned to take comfort from the sensation. The tingling was a part of her, like her bent, badly healed arm. It reminded her of a time in her life she'd do well not to forget.

"It's not that I've grown fond of him, per se. I've grown fond of... parts of him."

"Ah." Cecelia's lips tilted with mischief. "Parts you wish to become more intimately acquainted with."

Becky's cheeks heated, and she shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "Well, yes, I suppose you could put it that way."

Cecelia's renowned bluntness extended to matters most people kept to themselves. This was one attribute of her friend that had originally drawn Becky when they'd met during the Season earlier this year. She found Cecelia's matter-of-fact approach to mankind's baser nature both refreshing and shocking.

When London society had left en masse after the Season ended, Becky's family had remained. Cecelia had stayed in London, too, citing an utter loathing of country life. With most of society gone, Cecelia and Becky had turned to each other for company almost daily. Even now, however, despite their months of friendship, Becky still blushed often in the other woman's presence.

Cecelia's brow smoothed, and her lips softened into an expression of compassion. She laid an elegant, long-fingered hand on Becky's shoulder. "I am pleased for you. It has been so long."

Four years had passed since Becky had last lain with a man. She'd been so eager with her husband-eager to learn and eager to please. She had reveled in every touch they'd shared. Until things had turned sour.

"Too long," Cecelia added.

Becky blew out a breath and gave her friend an exasperated look. "Indeed, you are quite spoiled, Cecelia. Most widows never touch another man after their husbands die."

Cecelia, whose natural demeanor was one of haughty aristocracy, managed to appear even haughtier. Her thin, dark eyebrows arched into peaks. "Well, that is their loss. I lost my husband the same year you lost yours, and as you know, many men have warmed my bed since." She shrugged. "I shall offer no apologies for it. I love men."

Becky twisted her lips. "Really? I wouldn't say so. As a whole, I'd say you take a rather cynical approach to the male sex."

Cecelia laughed lightly and patted Becky's shoulder. "Of course you are right. I daresay men are most appealing when they're in my bed naked and occupying their mouths with pursuits other than talking."

Tiny hairs danced on end at the back of Becky's neck, and she wrenched her gaze away from her friend. When they'd last met, Jack had kissed her. The erotic touch of his lips had sent electric bolts shooting through her body, reminding her that no matter how long she kept it confined, her innate passion would never disappear.

"You're ready, Becky." Cecelia gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze.

"I'm not certain."

"I know it is what you want. And I know that whatever should happen between you and Mr. Fulton tonight, you're well equipped for it."

In the past few months, Cecelia had drawn Becky outside the tight confines of her loving but protective family. Late one night after a few glasses of claret, Becky confessed her secret desires to her friend, and Cecelia had taken it upon herself to candidly teach her all about how a widow should properly manage an affair-from the seduction to the culmination to what must take place afterward.

She was as ready as she'd ever be.

"I feel so heartless." Staring into the mirror at Cecelia, she ran a fingertip along the smooth neckline of her white muslin overdress. She'd worn a heavy silk opera dress to Cecelia's house, but that dress now hung in the oak-paneled wardrobe across from the dressing table. She intended to remove the overdress before she went to him tonight. The translucent gown underneath would make her intentions clear. "Somehow it feels wrong-immoral-to approach such intimate topics so carelessly."

Cecelia shook her head firmly and clasped her hands behind her back. "You mustn't feel that way. I believe this is one of the weaknesses of our sex-we become so overwrought in matters of carnal love that we are unable to see them for what they are."

Becky frowned up at her friend in the mirror. "And what are they?"

"Simple fleshly pursuits. Completely separate from matters of the heart."

"Surely there must be an overlap between matters of the flesh and matters of the heart."

"Sometimes there is," Cecelia admitted. "But that is generally not the case. It is a rare specimen of a man who allows his carnal desires to trickle under his skin in such a manner." Smiling, she waved her hand. "Yes, yes, I know your brother is one of them. But one need only survey the men of our class to prove my hypothesis."

Becky returned her friend's smile, then rose from the dressing table. She was ready. Trustworthy Josie, despite her impertinence, remained ever tight-lipped about her mistress's affairs and would remain here until Becky returned in the morning. Cecelia would accompany her to the hotel, leave her to her privacy with Jack, and return for her at two o'clock.

"No doubt you are right." Becky straightened her spine. "Never fear, Cecelia, I will remember everything you have taught me. My heart will remain uninvolved. Whatever becomes of the time I spend with Mr. Fulton, I shall possess fond memories of all that we will share."

Cecelia took her hand and squeezed it, smiling at her.

Becky hoped she was telling the truth. She wanted to be telling the truth. Yet she was terrified, for though she would try with all her might to heed her friend's warnings, she feared Jack Fulton had already melted away a piece of her armor and had begun to burrow beneath it.

Drawing on the gloves the butler had just handed him, Jack glanced at the Earl of Stratford. "Everything in place?"

Stratford nodded, then cocked a blond brow. "I feel it imperative to ask you one final time: Are you certain about this course? I am not personally acquainted with the woman, but her family is formidable. If they were to discover that you planned it-"

Jack raised his hand. "Easy, man. No one else knows. No one will ever know."

Stratford was the only man in London he trusted with his plan. Jack had returned three months ago after a twelve-year absence from England to discover most of his childhood acquaintances had matured into weak, foppish creatures. He'd met the earl one night at a tavern on the Strand and discovered he was neither.

In the past weeks, Jack had learned a little of the man's past. Like Jack, the earl had suffered a great loss. That experience had done much to form the man he was today. He was well known as a profligate rake, immoral and debauched. He was the kind of man the mamas of the ton cautioned their innocent daughters against.

Despite the abundant warnings against him, however, with his devil-may-care indifference, his stylish good looks, his sandy blond hair several shades lighter than Jack's, and his pugilist's build, Stratford managed to lure every female that came within his proximity. The earl managed his reputation with a devilish glint in his blue eyes and a carefree smile. If Jack hadn't been accustomed to such feelings himself, he never would have recognized the bone-deep misery and weariness within his friend.

The two men walked through the front door of the earl's townhouse and into St. James's Square. The sun streamed through a thick haze, and leaves and rubbish tumbled down the street, propelled by a stiff breeze. The wind had whipped away the sooty smells of the city, leaving the crisp scent of the late autumn air in its wake.

Staring over the windswept square, Jack tugged at the black woolen lapels of his coat, pulling it more tightly about him. Two carriages rattled past, followed by several men on horseback and a milk cart. He glanced at his friend, who had paused at the top of the stairs to button his stylish dark gray topcoat.

"I need this," he said, just loudly enough for the earl to hear over the sounds of the street.

Stratford paused, his hand on the stair rail. An amethyst ring winked at Jack from the earl's fourth finger. "I know."

Jack spoke flatly. "It is the only way. I haven't much time. I'll not run from England with my tail between my legs."

"Of course." Stratford's tone was mild, but he gazed at him from beneath the brim of his hat, his blue eyes probing. "I'd choose a different course. But I am not you."

"No," Jack agreed, his voice tight. "You are not."

The earl shuddered, the stiffness in his shoulders evaporated, and he descended the remaining two steps with easy grace. "I possess no desire to be shackled to anyone. Ever."

Neither had Jack. Not until he'd seen Lady Rebecca-Becky. He'd first glimpsed her six weeks ago at the British Museum. He'd followed her at a distance, observed how she'd clutched her arm to her chest as she studied the artifacts in studious silence while her companions gossiped and chatted amongst themselves. A part of him had softened. Standing apart from the others, she looked fragile and distant. She was beautiful, delicate, seraphic. But something about her, some dark edge he couldn't quite place his finger on, reminded him of himself.

In the ensuing days, he'd learned she was the widowed sister of the eccentric Duke of Calton. At the tender age of eighteen, she'd lost her husband and then she'd injured her arm badly in a carriage accident, which explained the way she'd guarded it so carefully at the museum. Though four years had passed since the accident and the death of her husband, her family reputedly hovered over her and protected her virtue as though she were a virgin debutante.

As Jack learned more about her, understanding dawned. She was the answer to his dilemma.

He'd discovered that Cecelia, Lady Devore, was a bosom friend of his target. Fortunately for him, the lady had been one of Stratford's conquests, and they remained on civil terms. Stratford had arranged an introduction, and upon meeting Jack and hearing of his interest in Lady Rebecca firsthand, Lady Devore's cool, cunning gaze had swept over him, and she'd agreed to discuss the prospect of presenting him to Lady Rebecca.

The next day Lady Devore sent a note naming a date, time, and place-a room in a small, elegant, but unassuming hotel near the Strand.

He'd seen Lady Rebecca five times. Lady Devore had chaperoned the first meeting, but they'd met alone since. They'd dined, they'd played chess, they'd talked late into the night. She had played the pianoforte for him while he'd watched raptly, his body hardening at the way her teeth grazed over her lower lip as she focused on the notes.

He was tired of being teased. He was tired of shaving through her layers of shyness. He knew she wanted him-he witnessed it when her eyes followed him across a room, when her breath caught as his fingertips grazed her cheek. He'd kissed her two nights ago, and she'd responded with breathless passion.

She was ready.

More important, he was running out of time. He would be married-or dead-before Christmas.

Tonight would seal their future.

Tonight would be the first night of the rest of his life with Lady Rebecca Fisk.

Becky took the coachman's hand and stepped out of the carriage, drawing her hooded, fur-trimmed cape close against the chill. She stared at the edifice of the hotel as Cecelia slid out and came to stand beside her.

The unremarkable facade of Sheffield's Hotel was painted a somber gray to complement the slate of the sky it stood beneath on this chilly November afternoon. Behind the facade, however, stood a stately place, with common rooms on the ground floor and twenty well-appointed and expansive guest chambers on the floors above. Cecelia had advised Becky to take a suite of two rooms on the top floor at the end of the corridor. The door to the suite opened to a sitting room containing a pianoforte, a marble hearth, and elegant French furniture. Double doors in the back of the room led into a bedchamber Becky had never entered. She'd have the opportunity tonight-although she knew it was more likely she'd have eyes only for Jack Fulton rather than the bedroom decor.

Cecelia squeezed her hand. "Are you ready?"

"Yes." Deliberately, she added a steel edge to the timbre of her voice. "Yes, I am."

She wanted this to happen tonight. More than she could adequately convey to Cecelia. Even though she knew Cecelia would understand.

"Let's go, then."