Seductive Deception

Chapter 1: A scarlet cloak in the night

Chapter One

June 1856

Whittington Estate

"You Blackguard!"

Morgan Clayton, newly appointed earl of Whittington, set the ledger he'd been reviewing on his large mahogany desk and stared at the doorway to his office. A lady— a tall, feminine beauty with a halo of fiery red hair and a tinder-hot temper to match—glared at him, hand on her hip, a bouquet dangling from her hand.

"Lady Henshaw?"

His jaw ticked.

He'd been back on English soil for two weeks and hadn't even acclimated to people addressing him as 'Lord', and now he was on the threshold of being verbally lashed by the lovely but increasingly angry Lady Henshaw.

"You," she fumed, pointing her finger at him, eyes blazing, "are a scoundrel of the worst sort. I ought to have known better."

She stalked toward him.

"Lady Henshaw," he repeated, more for himself than for her. "Did a chaperone accompany you to my office?"

His eyes darted to the doorway, finding it empty.

The idea of a chaperone accompanying a woman was absurd to Morgan; if he didn't desperately need one to appear at the moment, he'd believe it to be a myth. Despite being a newly inaugurated part of the bourgeoisie, he acknowledged that the gulf between him and the patrons of his inaugural ball was as wide and as deep as the English Channel.

Somehow, Lady Henshaw absconded from the ball where down the hall the orchestra swelled— the strings waxing and waning amid the din of gossip and laughter, a steady stream of lords and ladies danced under gilded chandeliers and the aroma of hot food and floor polish produced a trademark eau de cologne that wafted through the manor.

"I needn't require a chaperone." she jutted her chin in defiance, exposing a slender, elegant neck, a trait, he assumed, was bred into her from years of being at the top of a generational hierarchy. "As I have no desire to continue our acquaintance."

"Dubiously, a chaperone would make all the difference in the world," he rebutted.

Or so he'd been told.

Had this woman gone mad? His eyes darted to the sideboard, where he caught the gleam of amber liquid winking at him from behind the glass doors. Just a few steps to the side, and he could pour himself some much needed whiskey—relief from the insanity.

He stood, readjusting his cravat, which grew increasingly tight — blasted cravats; who invented these foolish things anyways? — and approached the front of his desk, offering his arm to her. "I will accompany you back to the ballroom; propose that you have gotten lost and were looking for the retiring room."

She gasped. "You're a beast! Not only do you affront me, but you were uncivil enough to have these delivered to my butler this morning."

She thrust the bouquet at him.

He studied the flowers, their vast heads of tiny blue flowers in desperate need of water. "I believe I did, yes."

"Are you indifferent to me, Lord Whittington?" she scowled, one lanky arm on her hip, the hem of her skirt bobbing from tapping her foot.

Indifferent wouldn't be the exact word he'd use—perplexed, exasperated, and overwhelmed were far more suitable. He swallowed.

"These are hydrangeas. You cannot expect me to believe that you haven't an inkling of what that implies?" She narrowed her jade eyes at him, a flush of crimson spreading to her cheeks.