Tempted

Book 1: Tempted/Scandal

by Pamela Britton

Genres: Historical Romance

Synopsis

Alexander Drumming, the Marquis of Warrick, is no saint. Descended from a long line of rakes, he has vowed to stop dallying with the fairer sex. But now he needs a woman-an extraordinary woman to tame his wildcat of a daughter. Intelligent, spirited Mary Callaghan is the perfect nursemaid for the child, but one look at her bedroom eyes and luscious lips and Alexander is tempted to seduce one last woman. For Mary, masquerading as a nanny and enticing the master of the house is all in a day's work-until stolen kisses and passionate caresses distract her from her perilous game. Soon two people who know the risk of mixing danger and desire find themselves on the brink of a shocking scandal, and Alexander is about to discover what happens when he lets an enemy into his house...and his heart.

Release date: January 1, 2004

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 336

Sample

Prologue

It all started in the late sixteenth century…or perhaps even before that. History is a fickle creature and facts ofttimes get blurred, but throughout the ages it has always been reported that the dukes of Wainridge were scoundrels. Licentious, disreputable scoundrels.

Wicked Wainridge was what they called the first duke, and not because of a penchant for sinning. Wherever he rode mothers would clutch young daughters to their bosoms, whispering, “Best behave, my sweet, or Wicked Wainridge will ride off with ye.” And to be sure, there was a good possibility of exactly that, for the duke’s sexual appetite was also rumored to be legendary.

But it was the second duke of Wainridge that truly cemented the family’s name. In his lifetime he absconded with three heiresses, two married ladies (one of whom stayed with him after her release) and a woman rumored to have been on her way to becoming a nun, but who…um, changed her mind.

“Scandalous,” whispered the people of that time. “Outrageous,” murmured others.

And so it began. For generations to come Wainridge men followed in the footsteps of the first and second dukes. Wicked Wainridge was what they were always called. By the end of the fifth duke’s life, they were legends. Licentious legends to be sure, but legends nonetheless.

To this wondrous reputation the heir to the eighth duke was born.

George Alexander Essex Drummond didn’t want to be a rake. Indeed, from an early age the young Alexander behaved in a manner contrary to that of previous heirs. Instead of playing an imaginary game of chase the maid, he played chase the villain, or pirate, or any other type of miscreant. Never once did he pinch a member of the female staff. Never once did he try to seduce his governess (though the old duke hired the comeliest). Lord, much to his father’s dismay, he didn’t lose his virginity until he was fifteen.

“Good lord,” the duke railed. “You don’t like”— horrors—“males?” he asked Alex one day.

Alas, no, his son reassured him, for he definitely preferred women, just not…so many.

That allayed the duke’s fears only marginally, for as his son became older, it became patently obvious that he preferred cutters over copulation.

Alex tried to buy a commission in the Navy. His father forbade it.

He tried to become a privateer. His father caught wind of that, too.

In the end, they settled upon a compromise. The young heir was allowed to work for the Customs Board chasing smugglers, a job the old duke considered harmless since confrontations were rare, but was, for a young lad, fabulously exciting.

The young marquis thrived.

Over the years, he worked his way up to revenue commander, and a damn fine one at that. He had a knack for knowing what night a ship would sail, an instinct for knowing where to place his own Revenue Cutter so that he could catch that smuggler in the act.

Only one thing marred his happiness. No matter what he did, no matter how well he performed, his family’s licentious reputation preceded him.

Always.

And so in the winter of 1816, the marquis—who was one and thirty years by now—found himself sent to the small town of Hollowbrook, a quaint coastal community with a not-so-quaint habit of avoiding revenue on imported goods.

Lord Warrick entered town like King David entered Jerusalem: Tall, proud, lacking only the low-toned hum of reverent voices chanting behind him in welcome.

The smugglers should have been impressed. And they might have been, too…if Lord Warrick’s family history hadn’t been recalled. Indeed, they took to calling him Wicked Warrick in honor of his illustrious heritage. There was even a maid or two who tried to see if there was any truth to the rumors, much to Alex’s dismay.

And so the marquis had something to prove. Well, he’d always had something to prove, which might explain why he’d become so compulsive about the way he ran his ship—and his life—like a clock maker ran his timepieces: everything in its place, every gear working in perfect order. It fair drove his staff and crew mad.

A week after his lordship began sailing Hollow-brook’s coast, the first arrest was made. A few days later, yet another one. And three days after that, another one still.

The townspeople went a little mad. Here was an end to their livelihood. No more fortunes would be made, not that the townspeople were swimming in blunt. No, indeed. They sought only to put food on the table. To clothe their children. To keep a roof over their heads.

For many, all that disappeared the day the marquis of Warrick sailed into Hollowbrook’s harbor.

And so we come to the end of our tale, though the beginning of another, for it is said that nothing angers a man more than losing his livelihood. Lord Warrick decimated Hollowbrook. That, it could be reasoned, was why they decided to make him pay.

’Twas Tobias Brown, head smuggler, and a man who’d just barely escaped Lord Warrick, who was put in charge of the project. But though he tried and tried to come up with a satisfactory plan, it all boiled down to one thing: Who had access to his lordship? Well, perhaps two things, for what would they do to his lordship if they did have access? Matters weren’t helped by the fact that Lord Warrick’s duties took him up and down the coast, his reputation such that more than one Custom House requested his aid.

And then one fine spring day someone spied an ad in the London Gazette, and wouldn’t you know it, the person advertising for a position was the very lord they plotted against?

HEAD NURSE NEEDED.

Must have experience with difficult children. Good character, etc. etc. Marquis of Warrick, 106, Manderly Street, London.

Aha, Tobias Brown thought. Here was a chance to infiltrate the enemy lair. Here was an opportunity to find an appropriate means of revenge, to perhaps even start the smuggling ring again; for if they could track his lordship’s moves, they would be able to gauge when and where to land contraband.

But who would infiltrate his lordship’s home?

Who, indeed…

Chapter One

No red cape.

No pitchfork.

No horns.

All in all Mary Brown Callahan would say that the Devil Marquis of Warrick didn’t look a thing like she expected.

Oddly enough, she felt disappointment. Of course, she couldn’t see his lordship all that well what with him sitting upon a bleedin’ throne of a chair behind his bleedin’ monstrosity of a desk.

“Please have a seat,” he said without looking up, his eyes firmly fixed upon a document before him, a clock on a mantel behind him tick-tick-ticking in an annoyingly sterile way. Somewhere off in the distance another clock chimed the quarter hour, the bong-ding-dong-dong finding its way into the room. Muted sunlight from the right reflected off the flawless, polished perfection of his desk. The ink-blotter lay exactly square, almost as if someone had used a measuring tape to place it. Papers were stacked at perfect right angles. A fragrant, rather obnoxious-smelling truss of red roses and rosemary squatted in a fat vase. It made Mary long to reach forward and mess it all up.

Instead, she took a seat, nearly yelping when the plush blue velvet did its best to swallow her like she were Jonah and the chair a whale. She jerked forward, looking up to see if his lordship had noticed. No. The swell were still engrossed in his work. Hmph.

She waited for him. Then waited some more. Finally, she began to tap her foot impatiently, her toe ticking on the floor in time with the clock … quite a merry beat when one got into the tapping of it.

The scratching of his quill abruptly stopped. His head slowly lifted.

Two things hit Mary at once. One, Alexander Drummond, Marquis of Warrick, had the prettiest eyes she’d ever seen, blue they were, the color of a seashell when you turned it upside down.

Two, he was not the ugly ogre she’d been expecting, which just went to show a body shouldn’t believe all the things that are said, especially when those words came from her silly baboon of a father, Tobias Brown.

His lordship blinked at her, frowned, then said, “I’ll be with you in just a moment,” slowly and succinctly—as if she had a whole hide of wool in her ears—before going back to work.

She narrowed her eyes. Would he now? Well la-de-da. His high-and-mightiness were right full of himself, wasn’t he, in his fitted jacket made of a black wool woven so tight, the fabric looked as shiny and as soft as a well-bred horse’s coat. His cravat wasn’t tied as intricately as some of those she’d seen—those worn by the dandies who strolled up and down Bond Street with silver-tipped walking sticks that they jabbed into the ground like the very earth offended them. No, his lordship’s cravat was simply tied, seeming to cup the chin of what was a very handsome face. No sense in denying it. Nothing slug-faced about it, which was how most lords looked, to her mind at least. This cull had a chin that was almost square, his nose not at all large and aquiline, but rather narrow and—could it be—a bit crooked? Above the eyes that she’d noted before sprang midnight black hair with strands of gray that peppered the bulk of it, those strands pulled back in a queue, the whole combining to form a face that would make a bold woman stare and a shy woman blush.

“Did your daughter give you that?” she found herself asking, more because she wanted to look into his extraordinary face again, rather than down the edge of it.

And so once again he looked up. His quill stopped its annoying scratch, the black jacket he wore tightening as he straightened. Thick, very masculine brows lowered. “I beg your pardon?”

“The gray hair,” she said, pointing with a gloved hand at his hair, and then motioning to her own carrots in case he needed further clarification.

And now those black brows lifted. “As a matter of fact, no. ’Tis a genetic trait inherited from my father. All Drummond men have it.”

She pursed her lips, liking the way his voice sounded. Low and deep and perfectly controlled, as if each syllable was measured and weighed before let loose on the world. “Only the men? What would you do if a woman were born with it? Strangle the lass?”

His lips parted. His jaw dropped, but he was only struck all-a-mort for a moment. Too bad.

“No, Mrs… .” He looked down, his white cravat all but poking him in the chin as he pulled sheets of papers toward him. She recognized them as the ones John Lasker had forged. John had the best penmanship in Hollowbrook. “Mrs. Callahan. We do not shoot our children.”

Got his ballocks in a press, hadn’t she? Hah. She almost smiled.

“And,” he continued, “Since it would appear as if you’re determined to interrupt me, I suppose we should just begin the interview for the position. That way, you can be on your way, and I can return to my work.”

Mary perked up. At last. Two, maybe three minutes and she’d be out of his lordship’s home. For one thing Mary Callahan didn’t want, and that was to nurse his daughter. No, indeed. She’d sooner let those fancy gents what practiced with their pistols down by the Thames use her for target practice. She’d only come to appease her monkey-brained father, a man who’d gone a wee bit crackers with his plot of revenge against the marquis. (Although now that she’d met the man, she could well understand her father’s aversion to the cull.) No, indeed. She’d do everything in her power to thwart that sap-skulled fool, that she silently vowed. And then she’d return to her real job, which was a fair way from St. James Square.

“I see you’re from Wellburn, Mrs. Callahan.”

She leaned forward, placing an arm nonchalantly on his desk as she pretended to look at the papers. He smelled nice, almost like cinnamon, which made her wonder if he’d used the spice in that fancy coffee of his, the one whose smell she could still catch if she inhaled deeply enough, which she did, which he must have heard because his brows lifted again. Next he looked at her arm, up at her, then at the arm again. Pointedly.

“Is that wha’ it says?” she asked, not removing her elbow, and not trying to smooth her Cockney accent, something she could do, if she had a mind to. She tilted her head, and Lord knows why, but when their gazes met, she smiled. Mary Callahan had a bonny smile. Truth be told, she had a lot of bonny traits—or so she’d been told. Fine green eyes. Dimples. And an endearing way of looking at a man from beneath her thick lashes, not that there was any reason to look up at his lordship that way.

The marquis, however, didn’t appear fazed. “You’re not from Wellburn?” he asked, his face blank.

He had the composure of a corpse.

“If that’s what it says, then I suppose I am.” She leaned back, noticing that his eyes darted down a second. Quickly. As if he’d glanced at her breasts, found them interesting, then looked away again because he couldn’t believe he’d done something so common. They were a fine, ripe bushel, though she was surprised his lordship here would be noticing. She’d have thought that kind of thing was beneath his hoity-toity nose.

“You suppose?”

She shrugged, one of the seams in the dress Fanny Goodwin had sewn popping a bit at the shoulder. It was blue with darker blue ribbon trimming the demure, long sleeves, and yet there was nothing demure about it. The bloody thing was sewn in such a way as to lift her breasts and hold them out for his lordship’s inspection like they were pudding molds sent up from the kitchen just to suit his taste. And perhaps they did for she could have sworn he glanced down again, though he covered it under the guise of moving his gaze to his papers again.

“Been travelin’ a lot,” she said. “Hard to keep track.” “I see.” And the words were clipped out: I. See. Gritted teeth. Stiff jaw. Bayonet up his backside.

He kept his gaze on the papers. “Do you enjoy being a nurse, Mrs. Callahan?”

“No.”

His head snapped up again. He was going to get a bleedin’ neck ache if he kept that up. Up. Down. Up. Down.

“No?”

She shook her head. “Can’t stand children.”

She had the rum-eyed pleasure of seeing his mouth drop open. “But it says here you love them.”

“Who said that?” she asked, and she really was curious. Fineas Blackwell, her father’s longtime chum, must have made John write that down. He had a wicked sense of humor, and saying she liked children was laughable indeed.

“Mrs. Thistlewillow.”

That explained it. “Mrs. Thistlewillow would claim Beelzebub loved children.”

His lordship had fine teeth, she noticed. And she had occasion to study them because his mouth hung open again. Not a rotted one in the lot.

“Mrs. Callahan. I get the feeling that you have not read your references.”

She snorted. Couldn’t help it. She’d no intention of getting hired for the job, so why read forged references? “I make a point not to read what others say about me.” And she was bloody proud of that fact. She might be a poor smuggler’s daughter. She might be a wee speck on his lordship’s boot heel, but Mary Callahan—lately of the Royal Circus—stood on her own two feet…literally as the case may be. Damn the rest of the world.

He shook his head, picked up her references, then tapped the edges of the papers on the desk as he said, “Mrs. Callahan. Thank you for coming, but it appears as if a mistake has been ma—”

“Papa!”

Mary’s arse fair puckered to the chair. Blimey, what a screech. The door swung open with a resounding boom that rocked all around it, including her eardrums. She swiveled toward the door. At least, she tried to. The bloody chair held her backside down like a Scottish bog.

“Papa, Simms says you’re interviewing another nurse.”

A little girl of about eight ran by, her hair streaming behind her. Black it was, and in sore need of a good brushing. She landed in a puppyish jumble of arms and legs in her father’s embrace, dust motes circling like buzzards in her wake. “I don’t want a nurse. I told you that.”

Ah. The little termagant herself.

Mary held her breath as she waited for his lordship to look up, to dismiss her, which he’d obviously been about to do before the hellion had come in.

“Gabby,” the marquis said. “Be polite and say how do you do to Mrs. Callahan.”

Polite? Bugger it. Mary wanted to leave.

“No,” the little girl snapped.

“Do it, Gabby. Now.”

The little girl drew back, her face only inches away from her father’s. They were practically nose-to-nose, the marquis’ handsome, arrogant face stern and disapproving. Lord, the man could scare kids on All Hallows’ Eve with a look like that.

The bantling wiggled on his lap. Then her face turned resigned. She shimmied down, landing with that soft shush of leather soles on fine carpet. The gray dress looked stained with juice, Mary noted, her black slippers that peeked out beneath white petticoats smudged with dirt. But she was a cute little moppet with her father’s startling blue eyes and dark, curly hair that rustled as she moved.

“How do you do,” she said, dropping into a curtsy that somehow seemed, well, mocking. And then she rose, looked sideways out of her eyes, and that cute little moppet with the pretty blue eyes stuck out her tongue.

Mary stiffened.

And that seemed to be the reaction wanted for the hel-lion gave her a smug smile.

Mary’s eyes narrowed. Never one to be gotten the best of, especially by some pug-nosed whelp, she stuck her tongue out, too.

“Papa,” the little girl breathed without missing a beat. “Did you see that? She stuck her tongue out at me.”

Mary looked up at the marquis. What? Wait a bleedin’—

“Gabby,” he said. “I know well and good that you stuck your tongue out first. Apologize to Mrs. Callahan immediately.”

“No,” the little girl snapped, her tiny hands fisting by her sides.

“Do it,” he ordered.

“No,” she yelled.

Mary covered her ears. “Land’s alive, m’lord. Don’t argue with her. I’ll lose me hearing. ’Tis plain as carriage wheels that she’s not going to apologize.”

For the second time that day—the first being the time he’d caught his first glimpse of the stunning Mrs. Callahan—Alexander Drummond, marquis of Warrick, felt speechless. It defied belief, the things that kept coming out of the nurse’s mouth. Simply defied.

“I beg your pardon?”

She arched red brows, and was it his imagination, or did those pretty green eyes of hers narrow?

“She’s not going to apologize. What’s more, I don’t want her bloomin’ apology. Fact is, I don’t want to be her nurse, either.”

Alex thought he’d misheard her again, was even tempted to lift a finger to his ear to clean it out in the event there was something wrong there, but then Gabby said, “Good. Leave,” verifying that the unexpected words had, indeed, been correctly deciphered.

“I will,” she answered right back, rising from her chair.

“Sit down,” Alex ordered. Granted, a minute ago he’d been about to tell the outspoken lady to leave. Now, oddly, he found himself taking her side.

“Please,” he added when—good lord—the woman looked ready to defy him.

She slowly sat, but she didn’t look too pleased about it.

“Gabby, you may leave. I will speak with you upstairs.”

His daughter’s lips pressed together, something he knew from experience meant a tantrum. “I’m a bastard,” she yelled in a last-ditch attempt to put the nurse off.

Alex winced. He knew the child was inordinately sensitive to the fact that her mother had left her on his doorstep. He could sympathize, still incensed himself that a woman could do such a thing.

He looked at Mrs. Callahan to gauge her reaction, but she merely lifted a brow. “Are you now?”

“I am.”

“Is that the excuse you use for your poor manners?”

Gabby sucked in a breath. “Did you hear that, father? She said I have poor manners.”

“Well, you do,” Mrs. Callahan said.

“Do not.”

The nurse snorted, the inelegant sound somehow seeming to fit the redoubtable nurse perfectly. “You don’t even know how to curtsy properly.”

“Do, too.”

“Not by the looks of the one you just gave me.”

To Alex’s absolute and utter shock, his obstinate daughter took a step back, straightened, and then gave the nurse a curtsy that would have done her mother proud…if she’d had one.

“There,” she said upon straightening.

Mrs. Callahan wrinkled her tilted nose. “Hmm. I suppose that was a wee bit better, but no proper little girl disobeys her elders.”

Gabby glared. So did the nurse.

Alex decided he’d had enough.

“Gabby, go to your room.”

His daughter opened her mouth to give her standard protest. But an odd thing happened. He saw her stiffen again. Saw her clench her fists. Saw her straighten. “As you wish, Papa.”

Alex just about fell off his chair.

She turned, gave him a quick, perfect curtsy, nodded to Mrs. Callahan—who, of all things, stuck her tongue out again—then left.

Silence dawned. Alex could only stare.

“If that’s the way she behaves, ’tis a wonder someone hasn’t given your daughter a basting.” Her full lips pressed together. “Fair wanted to do it meself.”

He blinked, found himself clearing his throat. “Mrs. Callahan, how long, exactly, have you been a nurse?”

Her face lost some of its composure. She straightened much the way Gabby had straightened a moment ago. “Long enough, m’lord,” she answered with a tilt to her lively little chin and a challenging sparkle in her eye.

“How long?” he asked again.

“Long enough to know you must be desperate indeed for someone to fill this post if I’m still sitting here.”

He drew back, once again startled by her frankness. But the way she’d challenged Gabby into behaving…It was a remarkable technique. “Where did you learn to handle children that way?”

“Handle ’em l. . .