Seduction of a Proper Gentleman (Last Man Standing) Read online

  Victoria Alexander

  Seduction of a Proper Gentleman

  This book is dedicated with affection to

  Adrienne Di Pietro,

  for her wicked wit and wisdom

  and because she’s who I want to be

  when I grow up.

  Contents

  Prologue

  It was a sad state of affairs when a man’s…

  Chapter 1

  He thought she was a beggar? Kathleen Mac David, granddaughter…

  Chapter 2

  It wasn’t a bad way to spend the day. Not…

  Chapter 3

  She opened her eyes and stared at the coffered ceiling…

  Chapter 4

  She stared back at him. “That sounds like a threat,…

  Chapter 5

  Kate had bent low to better study the wall. It…

  Chapter 6

  He did hope she wasn’t married.

  Chapter 7

  “Good morning, Oliver.” Kate stepped into the library.

  Chapter 8

  Oliver preferred not to think of himself as his mother’s…

  Chapter 9

  As much as Kate wanted to know everything about herself,…

  Chapter 10

  Oliver winced, released Kate, then stepped back.

  Chapter 11

  A worried frown creased Lady Norcroft’s forehead. “And you’re certain…

  Chapter 12

  Oliver was going to have to kill them. One at…

  Chapter 13

  “Good morning, Oliver.” Kate stepped into the library and closed…

  Chapter 14

  This was absurd.

  Chapter 15

  It was a perfect night. Rain had threatened all day…

  Chapter 16

  Oliver stared at the tall, rugged-looking man with the graying…

  Chapter 17

  Oliver’s brow rose. “Magic?”

  Chapter 18

  “You can’t possibly be considering returning to London today.” His…

  Chapter 19

  “Hollinger.” Oliver strode down the corridor toward the front door,…

  Chapter 20

  “Hollinger!” Oliver strode through the front door and handed his…

  Chapter 21

  Kathleen couldn’t recall the last time, if ever, she had…

  Chapter 22

  “Hollinger?” Kathleen tried to maintain a sedate pace even though…

  Epilogue

  “This is excellent cognac.” Warton studied the liquor in his…

  About the Author

  Other Books by Victoria Alexander

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  August 1854

  It was a sad state of affairs when a man’s only companion was a bottle of cognac. And an unopened bottle at that.

  Oliver Leighton, the Earl of Norcroft, sat at his usual table in his favorite club and stared at the bottle, absently jingling the four coins in his hand. Who would have thought it would come to this? Certainly not Oliver. He never imagined he’d be the last man standing. When he and three of his closest friends had formed a tontine a mere six months ago, Oliver never dreamed he’d be the ultimate winner. Nor, if truth were told, did he especially wish to be.

  The tontine was a wager of sorts. At stake was a shilling contributed from each of the men and the fine old bottle of cognac that now sat before Oliver in an odd sort of silent reproach. Not that there was anything to reproach him about. No, Oliver had emerged victorious through no fault of his own.

  It had been Warton, Gideon Pearsall, Viscount Warton, who had originally proposed the tontine. The winner of the stakes, admittedly meager but symbolic nonetheless, was the last man to marry, although freedom was the true prize. If any one of them at that time had been told all but one would be wed within half a year, the teller of such a tale would have been denounced as a lunatic. Of course now he would be seen as prophetic.

  The tontine was not a secret among members of the club and other gentlemen of their acquaintance. In private wagers around the city, the smart money had been on Warton. That he had been the first to fall was no more a shock to observers than it was to Warton himself. But fallen he had. And, as he was currently in the midst of planning an expedition to South America with the lovely Lady Warton to indulge her passion for the study of orchids, one might say he had fallen particularly hard. Even if the viscount was more resigned than enthusiastic, he had never suggested the journey not be attempted at all, which was a testament to the charms of the new Lady Warton as well as to the depth of her husband’s affection.

  But if Warton had been the favorite of those who preferred to bet on a sure winner, Cavendish had been close on his heels. Viscount Cavendish, Nigel, had spent much of his adult life in the fervent avoidance of responsibility of any kind and the equally fervent pursuit of women and a good time. Cavendish had lived his life on the edge of scandal and disaster. It was inevitable that one day he would be found in a compromising situation with a young woman of good family—precisely why Cavendish had usually avoided young women of good family. But regardless of the circumstances, it was obvious Cavendish too had lost his heart. And obvious as well that his new wife had played an enormous part in bringing about a change in the viscount. Cavendish had grown in the last few months and any fears Oliver might have had that his friend would come to a bad end had vanished. Cavendish was a changed man and a happy one. He and Lady Cavendish were currently traveling, Cavendish had explained with a laugh, to wherever the stars were brightest.

  Daniel Sinclair, the American among them, had been the third to fall. He had entered their circle of friends when his father had arranged a marriage with Oliver’s cousin. Although that arrangement had proved unsuccessful, a second matchmaking effort had succeeded, even if the manner in which it had come about was not what anyone had expected. Sinclair and his new bride were now in America, where Sinclair was poised to create a railroad empire. As the other men had invested heavily in the endeavor, they wished him well.

  Now, Oliver was quite alone. Admittedly that might be somewhat overdramatic. Certainly Oliver had other friends. Among them, Jonathon Effington, Marquess of Helmsley, although he was married now as well. Indeed, even though Helmsley was not part of the tontine, it had been his marriage that had prompted it in the first place.

  This was nonsense. Oliver glared at the innocent cognac. His friends weren’t dead, merely married. He hadn’t been abandoned, they had simply moved on with their lives. The fact that his was essentially unchanged was no one’s fault but his own. It was past time he made a concerted effort to find a bride. It shouldn’t be especially difficult. By anyone’s estimate he was an excellent catch. He was of good family and equally good fortune, better than average in appearance, indeed, some would call him rather handsome, even dashing. And no one had ever complained about his manner. Why, he could be quite charming. No, there was certainly nothing wrong with him. Now that he had apparently decided what he really wanted, he should have no problem finding just the right woman. No problem at all.

  Although there was that bothersome character flaw of his that had kept him from marriage thus far. The twelfth Earl of Norcroft was an unabashed romantic. He didn’t just want to marry, he wanted love. His father had loved his mother. His grandfather had loved his grandmother and so on and so forth. Why, marrying for love was every bit a part of his heritage as his blue eyes and brown hair. And every bit as impractical.

  Regardless, he was who he was.

  He signaled to a waiter, requested
the cognac be stored for a later time, then rose to his feet. Oliver made his way through the lounge and the foyer beyond, absently jingling the shillings in his hand, accepting the well-meaning congratulations of acquaintances, the jovial comments regarding his skill at avoiding the marital trap that had caught his friends and the observations about his good luck. He nodded at the doorman and stepped out into the deepening twilight. Odd, he hadn’t thought it was quite this late. He had lingered longer at the club than he had planned. Not that he had any other plans at the moment.

  He started toward his carriage, ignored a twinge of guilt at how long his driver had had to wait and brushed past a woman shrouded in an ancient cloak. A beggar no doubt. At once, Oliver was struck by the enormity of what he had that so many others did not. He had no legitimate reason to feel sorry for himself.

  He turned. “I beg your pardon, madam.”

  She didn’t say a word. Her face was hidden by her cloak and that, coupled with the approach of nightfall plus the long hours of savoring the club’s best whisky, produced the strangest feeling. As if she weren’t quite real. Or he wasn’t.

  “If I may be so bold.” He bowed and held out his hand. “I hope, dear woman, these will bring you better…luck if you will, than they have me.”

  She hesitated, then held out a gloved hand. He dropped the shillings into her palm, noting that the gloves were of exceptionally fine quality. A cast-off, no doubt.

  “Good day.” He nodded, turned on his heel and continued toward his carriage.

  When only he and Sinclair had remained in the tontine, Sinclair had suggested, given the speed with which the others had succumbed to marriage, that perhaps they, or the shillings or the cognac, had been cursed. Oliver had thought it utter nonsense then and no less ridiculous now. Regardless, the shillings had now been put to a good and charitable use. The cognac would not be opened until the time was right, which had nothing to do with any concern about luck, good or bad. Perhaps he would save it for his own wedding.

  No, Oliver Leighton, the Earl of Norcroft, did not believe in silly things like curses or superstition or magic.

  Unfortunately, Oliver smiled in a wry manner, he very much believed in love. And that might be as difficult to find as magic.

  Chapter 1

  He thought she was a beggar? Kathleen Mac David, granddaughter of the Countess of Dumleavy, stared at the coins in her hand. Indignation swept through her. A beggar? The arrogance of the man. No, the stupidity!

  “I beg your par—” She looked up, the words died in her throat. The earl was already climbing into his carriage.

  She watched it pull away and her annoyance faded. To be fair, and Kathleen was nothing if not fair, in the deepening shadows of the approaching night, and wrapped in the hooded cloak her grandmother had insisted she wear for luck—it had been passed down from grandmother to granddaughter for generations and therefore had a certain inherent power—perhaps it might be possible, if one were paying scant attention, to mistake a lady of quality for a beggar. And perhaps, if one incorrectly assumed a woman in an overly large, faded, well-used cloak was not a lady of quality, then the apparent lack of any kind of feminine accompaniment in the form of a forbidding chaperone might confirm that mistaken impression. Very well then. Kathleen started toward her carriage a scant few yards from where the Earl of Norcroft’s vehicle had been parked no more than a minute ago. Perhaps the man wasn’t an idiot, which was rather nice to know, all things considered.

  She instructed the driver of her carriage to return to the hotel, then climbed in and settled in the seat across from her aunt and alleged chaperone Lady Hannah Fitzgivens. If truth were told, it was often difficult to tell just who was chaperoning whom. Not that, as widows, either really needed a chaperone. Necessity aside, Hannah had insisted on accompanying Kathleen because, as she had said before they had left Scotland, it might be an interesting adventure.

  “Well?” Hannah raised a brow. “Did you see him?”

  “I did,” Kathleen said slowly.

  “And?” An eager note sounded in Hannah’s voice.

  “I didn’t say a word.”

  “Oh.” Hannah’s expression fell, then brightened. “Are we following him then?”

  “No, of course not. We’re returning to the hotel. My intention was not to accost him, you know.”

  “Not to accost him yet, you mean.”

  “I don’t mean that at all. I simply wanted to get a good look at the man.” Kathleen shrugged as if that was truly all that she had intended. Of course, they both knew better. Indeed, when he had stopped before her, Kathleen had been perilously close to throwing caution to the winds and introducing herself. Even in that brief moment, there had been the hint of something inevitable about the man. Utter nonsense really and attributable to nothing more significant than her grandmother’s never-ending pronouncements and her own newfound belief in destiny and the absurd. Regardless, such a first meeting might be awkward and would be highly improper although she had never been overly concerned with propriety unless it suited her.

  But he was a British lord with a long and distinguished title and it would not do to get off on the wrong foot with him. Still, Kathleen doubted there was a right foot. She sighed and settled back in her seat. Nothing about this venture was going to be even remotely less than awkward.

  “But I thought you had a photograph?”

  “An image captured in that excruciatingly long time one has to remain motionless for the camera to do its work has always struck me as being somewhat less than lifelike. Oh certainly it is exact, but it fails to capture…” Kathleen thought for a moment. “The humanity of a subject, if you will. The subject of a photograph might as well be an apple for all the life expressed in the resulting image.” She shook her head. “It is not at all like a living, breathing person.”

  “And you found the living, breathing person…” Hannah paused in an annoyingly pointed manner. “Acceptable?”

  “Yes, Aunt Hannah, I did.” More than acceptable but she wasn’t at all sure she wished to confess that yet. While his eyes had never met hers, even in the deepening twilight she had seen they were a rich blue and she had wondered in that instant what they would look like when he laughed. Or when he was angered. Or in the throes of passion, although that was not something it would be wise to dwell on at the moment and certainly not something she would tell her aunt. While the photograph allowed her to recognize his features anywhere, the lack of color coupled with the firm, unyielding expression that was mandatory for a photograph did not do justice to the Earl of Norcroft in the flesh.

  His hair was not as dark as she had thought given the photograph, more a rich brown than a black. He was taller than she had expected as well, his shoulders broader, his stride determined. Oh yes, he would do.

  “I assume, given your reluctance to do so before now, you were simply waiting to see the gentleman in person before proceeding with a plan. You do need a plan, my dear.”

  “Yes, you’ve mentioned that,” Kathleen said under her breath.

  Aunt Hannah was a firm believer in plans. She said most of the ills of the world could be laid at the foot of poor planning and claimed her first marriage to a wealthy Scottish lord was the direct result of a well-laid plan. That she had loved him with a passion that had lingered far beyond his death at a tragically young age had not been part of her plan. In the nearly quarter of a century since his demise, she had had any number of lovers but not another love. When pressed, she would say that was part of a grander plan which was not, on a divine level, especially well thought out.

  “I shall think of something,” Kathleen murmured.

  “I would be happy to mix up a potion,” Hannah said casually. “Concoct a charm or something of that nature. It would make all this easier.”

  “No,” Kathleen said firmly.

  Hannah shrugged. “It was just a thought.”

  “I think this situation is best left to more ordinary methods.”

  “I don’
t see why.” Hannah sniffed. “The situation is not the least bit ordinary.”

  “Nonetheless, I prefer to handle this in my own way.”

  “Humph.” Hannah mumbled something else Kathleen couldn’t make out and thought that was for the best. She assumed it was, as always, a comment on the sensible nature of Kathleen’s long-dead parents and how their daughter was just like them. Kathleen had no desire to become involved in yet another debate about magic.

  Her grandmother and her aunt had dabbled in magic for as long as Kathleen could remember without any significant results as far as she could tell. Oh certainly both women claimed success with whatever potion they had concocted or spell they had cast, but the results were, in Kathleen’s eyes, debatable and more often than not easily explained by rational means. She had long suspected her female relatives liked the idea of magic and thought they were practitioners of the mystic arts when, in fact, they weren’t. Their belief was just one of the reasons why Kathleen considered herself the only practical, and therefore responsible, female member of the family.

  Magic, spells, charms, and curses were all utter nonsense. Although, admittedly, in recent years, Kathleen had come to accept that possibly her family might have a point, at least when it came to ongoing events that had no other explanation.