How the Scoundrel Seduces Read online

  “ANYONE WHO LOVES ROMANCE MUST READ SABRINA JEFFRIES!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Lisa Kleypas

  “JEFFRIES’S ADDICTIVE SERIES SATISFIES.”

  —Library Journal

  Praise for the Duke’s Men novels from New York Times and USA Today bestselling author SABRINA JEFFRIES

  WHEN THE ROGUE RETURNS

  “For lovers of romantic fiction, Sabrina Jeffries has a gift for you. . . . Isa and Victor’s story will stick with you long after the last page is read and will leave you hungering for more adventures from the Duke’s Men.”

  —Novels Alive.TV

  WHAT THE DUKE DESIRES

  “A totally engaging, adventurous love story . . . with a strong plot, steamy desire, and an oh-so-wonderful ending.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “This unusual tale of interlocking mysteries is full of all the intriguing characters, brisk plotting, and witty dialogue that Jeffries’s readers have come to expect.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Another sparkling series” (Library Journal) from Sabrina Jeffries—read all of the “exceptionally entertaining” (Booklist) novels of the

  HELLIONS OF HALSTEAD HALL

  A LADY NEVER SURRENDERS

  “Jeffries pulls out all the stops. . . . With depth of character, emotional intensity, and the resolution to the ongoing mystery rolled into a steamy love story, this one is not to be missed.”

  —RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars, Top Pick)

  “Sizzling, emotionally satisfying. . . . Another must-read.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “Brimming with superbly shaded characters, simmering sensuality, and a splendidly wicked wit, A Lady Never Surrenders wraps up the series nothing short of brilliantly.”

  —Booklist

  TO WED A WILD LORD

  “Wonderfully witty, deliciously seductive, graced with humor and charm.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “A beguiling blend of captivating characters, clever plotting, and sizzling sensuality.”

  —Booklist

  HOW TO WOO A RELUCTANT LADY

  “A delightful addition. . . . Charmingly original.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Richly imbued with steamy passion, deftly spiced with dangerous intrigue, and neatly tempered with just the right amount of tart wit.”

  —Booklist

  A HELLION IN HER BED

  “A lively plot blending equal measures of steamy passion and sharp wit.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “Jeffries’s sense of humor and delightfully delicious sensuality spice things up!”

  —RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars)

  THE TRUTH ABOUT LORD STONEVILLE

  “Jeffries combines her hallmark humor, poignancy, and sensuality to perfection.”

  —RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars, Top Pick)

  “Lively repartee, fast action, luscious sensuality, and an abundance of humor.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “Delectably witty dialogue . . . and scorching sexual chemistry.”

  —Booklist

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  PROLOGUE

  Yorkshire

  1816

  WITH DAYLIGHT FADING in the Viscount Rathmoor’s bedchamber, seventeen-year-old Tristan fought to free his hand from his father’s grip. He should go light a candle and stoke the fire, perhaps even see if the doctor had arrived.

  But Father was having none of that. “Don’t leave me.”

  “I just thought I should—”

  “Stay with me.” He clutched Tristan’s hand hard enough to hurt.

  Tristan avoided looking at the red stain soaking the hasty dressing that he and the groom had inexpertly applied to the viscount’s wound. Father had gone through worse. He’d once faced down native pirates in Borneo and lived to tell the tale. He was good at having adventures. And telling tales.

  Tristan’s throat tightened. Father was good at everything . . . except caring for his family. Or rather, his families.

  Using Tristan’s hand for leverage, Father tried to pull himself into a sitting position.

  “Don’t!” Tristan cried. “You have to conserve your strength until the doctor arrives.”

  Father shivered. “No point, lad. I’m dying. Up to you . . . to take care of . . . your mother and sister. You’re . . . the man of the house now.”

  Panic seized Tristan. “You mustn’t say that. You’ll be fine.”

  Father had to be fine. If he died, Mother and Lisette would never survive it.

  He swallowed his tears, determined not to shame himself, then drew the cover up to his father’s chin in an attempt to stop the trembling. Father was just cold. Someone really should stoke the fire.

  “Get away from him!” ordered a voice from the door. “You have no right to touch him.”

  He bristled at the sight of George Manton, his loathed half brother, nine years his senior. George was heir to the Rathmoor title and estate because he’d been born on the right side of the blanket.

  Tristan had not. Which was why everyone in town called him “the French bastard,” even though he was only half-French and had been born and raised right here at Rathmoor Park.

  “Leave the lad . . . alone,” Father managed. “I want him with me.”

  George entered, his eyes glittering in the candlelight. “Your damned by-blow is probably responsible for getting you shot in the first place.”

  “That’s a lie!” Tristan cried, half rising in his chair.

  “Enough.” Father’s breath came in staccato gasps, like that of a prime goer in the final lengths of a race. “No one’s fault. Gun misfired. It . . . was an accident.”

  “We’ll see about that,” George said. “You can be sure I’ll speak to the groom and whoever else was present.”

  “Where’s Dom?” Father asked. “I need . . . Dom.”

  When George grimaced, Tristan prepared himself for anything. George resented Dominick, his legitimate younger brother, almost as much as he resented his half siblings, probably because Dom’s birth had caused the death of Lady Rathmoor when George was only seven.

  Perhaps that was why Dom and Tristan had taken to each other like collies to cattle—the fact that George wanted nothing to do with either of them. Besides, in the eyes of the law, a second son was only slightly superior to a natural son, since the future of either still depended on their father’s whim. That alone cemented their brotherly friendship.

  “Dom’s still in York,” Tristan told his father. “He should return tonight.”

  “Can’t wait,” Father ground out. “Must do this . . . now. Fetch . . . my writing desk.”

  Father’s fractured speech sparked Tristan’s alarm. When George didn’t immediately act, Tristan jumped up and pushed past the burly arse to get to the portable writing desk their father had carried through Egypt, France, Siam, and whatever other place had seized his fancy in the past two and a half decades.

  As he brought it back, Father dragged in a laboring breath. “Write this down, lad.”

  With a wary glance at the fuming George, Tristan took out the quill and inkpot to record the words his father dictated in halting speech: “I, Ambrose Man
ton . . . Viscount Rathmoor, being of sound . . . mind, make this addition . . . to my will and testament.” Father paused to catch his breath. “To my natural son Tristan Bonnaud, I bequeath my gelding . . . Blue Blazes—”

  “Father!” George said sharply. “Blue Blazes should go to Dom or me.”

  Father’s gaze grew steely. “I promised him to . . . your half brother last year. Tristan picked the Thoroughbred for me, so the lad should . . . have him.”

  George flushed as Tristan hastily wrote the words. Tristan loved Blue Blazes, who’d earned top prizes ever since Father had bought him at an auction in York. No surprise that George wanted the gelding, but honestly, George would inherit everything else. He didn’t have to have Blue Blazes, too.

  And did this mean that Father hadn’t put them in his will at all ? How could that be?

  When Father went on to make provisions for Dom, Tristan bent his head to hide his dismay. Bad enough for Father to be haphazard about his natural children, but about Dom? It wasn’t right.

  Then Father left several trinkets from his travels to Lisette, and the cottage and an annuity of two hundred pounds to Mother, his mistress for the past twenty-some years. Whom he’d kept promising to marry, but never had, because of the possible scandal. And now there would never be a chance of it.

  Father would survive. He must!

  “One more thing, lad,” Father rasped. “Put down that Fowler will . . . train you as his . . . assistant.”

  As George swore under his breath, Tristan hastily scribbled the words. Father had talked for years about Tristan’s learning to be a land agent under the present one, but Tristan had never dared hope for that. He couldn’t imagine anything more wonderful than working with Fowler, and perhaps replacing the older man one day.

  When he was done, Father reviewed the paper, then thrust it at George. “Sign it . . . and put ‘witness’ beneath your name. No one will . . . question the codicil . . . if you sign. It goes against your . . . interests.”

  George crossed his arms over his chest. “Aye, it does. Which is precisely why I won’t sign.”

  A shrewd expression crossed Father’s face. “I may yet . . . live, boy. The doctor is . . . on his way. If I survive . . . I’ll make you regret . . . defying me.”

  Father could do it, too. If he chose to sell off unentailed portions or mortgage the lot, George would spend the rest of his life digging out from under the debts. Besides which, George depended on Father for money until he inherited.

  Tristan held his breath. As long as George couldn’t see the rapidly spreading red stain hidden beneath the heavy covers, he might acquiesce.

  The sound of hoofbeats outside apparently decided him. George grabbed the codicil and the quill from Tristan and signed. But then he just stood there staring at the paper.

  Father held out a trembling hand. “Give it to me.”

  George hesitated.

  “Give . . . it . . . to . . . me . . .” Father choked out, but his voice was clearly weakening.

  Tristan leaned forward to raise Father’s head and plump his pillow. “Hold on, Father.” His stomach lurched. “Help is nigh. You can’t leave us. You can’t!”

  Father’s eyes clouded over. “Get . . . the . . . paper, Tristan. Promise me . . . you’ll give it . . . to Dom.”

  “Quiet now.” A chill wracked Tristan at seeing Father’s struggle to speak.

  “Promise me!” his father said through clenched teeth.

  “I promise. Now be still.” Tristan held his hand out to George. “Give it to me, all right? Can’t you see it’s upsetting him?”

  But George stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the damned piece of paper. Then they both heard a gurgling sound, and George jerked his gaze up. “Father?” He went to stand on the viscount’s other side. “Father!”

  Blood trickled from Father’s mouth, and Tristan’s pulse faltered. “No, this can’t be happening! No, no, no . . . Father!”

  He cradled Father’s head in his hands, but Father’s eyes were fixed now, and his chest didn’t move.

  “We have to help him,” Tristan told George. “We have to do something!”

  “Move away!”

  Tristan backed off. George set down the codicil, then bent to shake Father’s shoulders. “Father,” he said firmly. “Damn it, wake up!”

  When the glassy stare didn’t alter, George grabbed a hand mirror from the dressing table and held it over Father’s mouth. Then he let out a low curse.

  “Well?” Tristan asked fearfully.

  George’s face looked carved in stone. “There’s no breath. He’s dead.”

  “That’s a lie!” In a frenzy, Tristan tried to revive his father, chafing his hands and rubbing his chest, but that eerie stare never altered. For once, George was telling the truth.

  Tristan’s blood ran like sludge through his veins. Father was gone. They would never again attend races together, never go hunting grouse or deer. There would be no more lazy evenings at the cottage while Father regaled them with wild tales of his travels.

  Ruthlessly, Tristan fought back tears. His half brother would mock him, especially since George wasn’t crying himself—though he stared fixedly at Father as if to glower the man into reviving.

  “What do we do?” Tristan whispered.

  “We do nothing. I’ll mourn my father’s passing and see to his burial. You will leave this house. Now.”

  Shock gripped Tristan. “You wouldn’t . . . Surely you can’t mean to banish me from—”

  George reached over to close Father’s eyes and pull the cover over his face. “I mean to do whatever I please from this day on. I own this house and everything in it.” He fixed Tristan with a look of pure vitriol. “So you are to get out and never darken these doors again.”

  The command wasn’t entirely unexpected. Tristan had only ever been welcomed inside by Father and Dom, and now even Dom would hesitate to go against George.

  Thinking of Dom reminded Tristan of his promise. Dom was studying to be a barrister and thus knew about legal matters. That was why Father wanted him to have the codicil.

  Tristan rounded the bed, heading for the side table where George had set the paper down, but George blocked his path.

  “Let me pass,” Tristan said.

  “Not on your life.”

  Fear froze Tristan’s spine. If George didn’t honor the document . . .

  No, surely even George wasn’t that awful. “I promised Father I’d give Dom the codicil. Surely you won’t prevent me from keeping my promise.”

  Like a crow feeding on carrion, George pecked at his hopes. “If you think I’ll let you and your whoring mother cheat me out of one penny of my inheritance, you’re mad.”

  Whoring mother. Damn it, Tristan had heard those words far too often from George. He thrust his face into his brother’s. “If you ever dare to call my mother a whore again, I’ll beat you to a bloody pulp.”

  George snorted. “You can try. But I was always able to trounce you. That hasn’t changed.”

  The hell it hadn’t. Tristan lunged for the document, hoping to take George off guard, but George anticipated the move and tossed the codicil into the fire.

  “No!” Tristan cried, turning for the hearth.

  George caught him from behind, hanging on no matter how Tristan fought to get free. “You’ll never see Blue Blazes again, you hear me?” George hissed. “And you’ll damned well never be trained as a land agent, if I have anything to say about it.”

  Tristan’s heart constricted as he watched his hopes burn. “Father wanted me to have a future.” It was proof of his love, and God knew Tristan had few enough of those. “You would go against his dying wish?”

  Now that the document was ashes, George shoved Tristan aside. “He wasn’t in his right mind. And I’m not going to put up with you hanging about Rathmoor Park for the rest of my life, fomenting scandal everywhere we go.”

  Scandal. Tristan was sick to death of it. Thanks to the Manton fear of scandal, Mother
had never had a chance at a decent life. He couldn’t let George do this!

  “So why not give me Blue Blazes?” At least then Tristan could race the animal and perhaps support his family that way. “You have plenty of other fine horses. You don’t need Blue Blazes, too!”

  “You wouldn’t know what to do with the beast even if you did own it,” George spat. “It’s not as if you’ll have the money to take care of it.”

  “I could race him—”

  “Where?” George’s cold gaze flicked dismissively over Tristan. “Do you actually think racing gentlemen will allow a Frenchy bastard like you to move in their circles? They only tolerated you because of Father.”

  “That’s not true!” Tristan cried, though he feared it was. “Everyone says I know a lot about horses. Father told me his friends were impressed.”

  “By your ability to pull the wool over his eyes, perhaps. But even if I did allow you to have the gelding, you have nothing else to impress them with.” George sneered at him. “Why do you think Father never had you educated beyond the Ashcroft dame school? He knew there was no point. You’re too stupid to do anything but live off his generosity, and I’m putting a stop to that.”

  Bile rose in Tristan’s throat. Without the annuity or even the horse, how would they survive? What would happen to Mother and Lisette? “I’ll tell everyone what you’ve done.” Might as well use the family hatred of scandal against George. “You won’t get away with it!”

  George laughed. “Who will you tell? The servants? The villagers? It’s your word against mine, and you’re naught but a bastard. Even if they did believe you, they know whose money pays for their very lives, so they won’t dare act on it.”

  “Dom would.” Tristan balled his hands into fists. “He’ll never stand for this. You burned up his inheritance, too.”

  “I’ll take care of my legitimate brother,” George said icily. “I would have fought the codicil legally anyway, and you would never have seen the money.”

  “Then there was no need for you to burn it,” Tristan shot back.

  George shrugged. “It saves me from waiting months for a court proceeding. That’s why Dom will side with me—because he needs my fortune to live. He certainly won’t defy me over the likes of you and yours.”