Seduced in September

  A Year Without a Duke

  The duke has died. Long live the duke! The only problem is no one knows who the new Duke of Beckworth is. All of England wonders, but no one more so than the people who depend upon Beckworth for their livelihood. In 1816, a year so cold that the word “summer” is a cruel joke, that livelihood is even more uncertain. However, they are all about to find out, with the duke away, there is nothing more warming than scandal and love…

  Jilted in January by Kate Pearce

  Forbidden in February by Suzanna Medeiros

  Seduced in September by Genevieve Turner

  An Affair in Autumn by Jennifer Haymore

  A Duke by December by Sabrina Darby

  First Digital Edition, February 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the author.

  Digital books are not transferable. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright holder is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  To learn more about Genevieve and for more information about A Year Without a Duke, visit:

  www.genturner.com

  Twitter: @GenTurner5

  Facebook: Genevieve Turner

  To join Genevieve’s mailing list, click here!

  Seduced in September

  Genevieve Turner

  Adele Vere is the model of a perfect English governess: docile, good-tempered, and well principled. She’s worked her entire life to keep others from knowing the truth—it’s all a façade. If her origins were discovered, she’d fall too far to ever recover.

  No one is more dangerous to her than Edward Coyne, the roguish stable master tasked with her riding lessons. His knowing gaze and bold touches make her suspect that he sees through her lies. When Mr. Coyne surprises her with an audacious offer, she must choose: remain safely behind the walls she’s erected… or dare the fall she so fears in her reach for love.

  Henrietta Pemberley,

  Housekeeper, Beckworth Park

  My dear Mrs. Pemberley,

  Thank you so much for your recent letter. I must admit that your accounts of the goings-on at Beckworth Park have brought me some much-needed amusement as I strive to discover the identity of the lost duke. I have taken to bringing your missives home to enjoy them at my leisure. I am a widower with three grown sons, and spend most of my evenings alone. Your witty replies provide a bright spot in my otherwise dull existence.

  I did wish to bring one matter to your attention. The annual salary for the governess is due to be paid soon. As the duke has not been found, should I assume that Miss Vere is still needed, and that her young charge will not be sent off to school? If this is the case, please let me know when you write back.

  I do foresee a visit to Beckworth Park in my future to discuss the exorbitant cost of maintaining the deceased duke’s racing stables. Although that discussion might be difficult, I cannot pretend that the thought of finally meeting you in person, my dear Mrs. Pemberley, does make the thought of my onerous task and journey far more pleasurable.

  I remain your obedient servant,

  Reginald Tompkins, Esq.

  Richards, Thistlewaite and Tompkins Solicitors

  Temple, London

  Chapter One

  Adele Vere had been haunted by his hands from the very beginning.

  Broad palms, long, blunt-tipped fingers, the nail on his left ring finger slightly misshapen—after the first time she’d seen them, she could have drawn Edward Coyne’s hands from memory. Not that she’d ever put such a vulgar thing to paper to provide evidence of her lustful thoughts for anyone to discover.

  If only he hadn’t put those hands on her… She might have resisted their pull on her mind, her memories, if he’d never touched her.

  But he had. All those many months ago, during her first riding lesson.

  The old duke had decreed that the governess must learn to ride—why, he did not say—so she’d found herself standing on a mounting block, too afraid to move forward and clamber onto the wide back of the horse. And too terrified of the duke’s displeasure to flee back to the house.

  Mr. Coyne had simply folded his arms and stared at her with those devastatingly blue eyes. He hadn’t touched her yet, but the simple fact that he was to be her instructor was enough to surprise her. He was the stable master—surely he was too busy to see to an utter novice’s education. He was also supposed to be at the duke’s training stables near Newcastle. But there he was, holding the reins of a horse as wide as it was tall.

  She mistrusted his gaze, warm and sharp as it was.

  Taking a deep breath, she’d run her hands down the front of her riding habit, trying to summon her courage. It was one of the duchess’s old habits. Adele had spent three hours the night before painstakingly picking out the embroidery and removing the lace at the neck and cuffs. There was no sense putting a peahen like herself into the plumes of a peacock.

  Mr. Coyne had released a sharp breath of exasperation at her hesitation, and before she could hop off the mounting block, he’d set those hands at her waist—so large they’d curled just under her breasts—and plopped her right onto the horse.

  She’d grabbed for the pommel and sat rigid as a statue, her mouth open.

  He’d touched her. As bold as brass too. The imprint of his hands had lingered, twin brands of his, lying just below her breasts. She could hardly draw breath past those marks.

  “You’re meant to pick up the reins,” he’d drawled. Somehow his accent had allowed him to slip more insolence into the words than should have been possible. Insolence that had raised sparks all along her skin under her remade riding costume.

  And thus began Adele’s torture. Months of it.

  It was summer now. Or at least, it should have been. But the cold and the rain—and the snow!—had made it the most miserable summer of Adele’s existence.

  Her daily lessons with Mr. Coyne didn’t make the season any brighter.

  She waited at the top of the mounting block that morning, old Dove standing placidly before her. Adele didn’t bother to try to mount. That wasn’t part of their little routine here. No, instead, Mr. Coyne of the blazingly blue eyes and blunt, broad hands stepped forward, set his fingers just under her breasts, and hefted her onto the horse.

  Each time she told herself that she was ready, that she wouldn’t react this time to the bold clasp of his—and every time she found herself fighting for air.

  Only this time, this time it was worse. Whether it was because he heard her gasp or saw her tongue dart out to wet her lips or felt the tightening of her skin beneath her clothes… this time his hands seized her just beneath her breasts, so, so close to cupping them.

  Her nipples went hard, as if to say hello to those trespassing hands.

  He slid his grip down her rib cage.

  Startled, she cut her gaze toward his. He held hers, open and frank as his hands made their way to her legs. They traveled along her right thigh—she clenched inside at the touch—then settled on her left
knee.

  Ah, such open iniquity. If she could only breathe, only think, she could tell him what she thought of his crude touch.

  You love it. You crave it.

  No. No, she didn’t.

  A girl brought up as Adele had been would never dream of his rough hands running down her bare skin while she lounged in the bath, wouldn’t imagine his long, strong limbs tangling with hers as she lay on her narrow bed. Such imaginings were more suited to a French opera dancer’s bastard, not the upright, respectable young lady Adele had been molded into.

  Adele Vere was nothing more than an English governess. That was all she could be if she were to survive. As a proper English girl, she’d kick this Irishman full in the face for his improprieties. Just as soon as her limbs could move again.

  He slid her knee over the horn, securing it there. This too was part of their routine. He set her on the horse, arranged her limbs. Except he hadn’t ever, not once, dragged his hands down her torso—until today.

  His hands were traveling down her left calf, the sensation blunted by the high boots she was wearing. When he reached her ankle, his hands snaked under her skirts, his fingers wrapping tight around her ankle. Gently, but firmly, he slid her foot into the stirrup.

  Their gazes had been tangled within the other the entire time.

  “All right then, Miss Vere?” Voiced low with a hint of wickedness. Or perhaps he didn’t have to add the wickedness—his accent did it for him without effort.

  His hand released her ankle, and her breath and sense came rushing back.

  “Yes.” There, there was the coldness she should have turned on him when he was running his hands all over her. Why had it only come to her just now?

  A shuddering ran through her muscles as she realized what she’d done, what she continued to let him do. If Mrs. Fairfield knew that her foster daughter had allowed a stable master—an Irish stable master!—to do such things, that lady’s stick-straight hair would curl like Adele’s.

  She gathered up the reins, meaning to put some distance between herself and that horrid Irishman. She set her heel to the horse’s left flank and her whip to the right, urging Dove forward.

  Dove merely flicked an ear back at her. Having retired from heavy work some years ago, Dove saw no need to move when first asked. Perhaps her rider might forget she’d urged Dove forward and the mare could simply be left in peace.

  At least, that’s what Adele assumed was going through the horse’s head. She hadn’t yet learned the art of reading a horse, not like Mr. Coyne had.

  He chirruped. “Get up, Dove.” He addressed the horse, but the irritation was aimed at Adele.

  Adele pressed again. Come on, you stupid beast. Get us away from him. Finally, Dove took several slow, lumbering steps forward, coming clear of the mounting block. Thank God.

  Adele steered the horse to the one side to wait. She let the reins go slack. No need to worry that old Dove might go off on a tear.

  Mr. Coyne’s horse, on the other hand… Joey, one of the stable boys, brought forward the horse, a massive chestnut stallion with thin, flaring nostrils, lanky, long legs that stepped high, and a rather nervous way of tossing his head. Adele wouldn’t have gotten on such a horse for all the tea in China.

  But Mr. Coyne approached with confidence, not a hint of fear in his frame. “Hold him, Joey,” and then he was swinging on. He gathered up both sets of reins—the beast he was riding required two bits for some reason—and nudged the horse forward.

  The horse charged ahead, or tried to. Mr. Coyne held him back with ease. “We’ll get there, Clarion. Patience.”

  The horse calmed, easy as that. If Adele had slightly worse manners, she would have shaken her head in consternation.

  He rode past her, all competent grace as he did his impression of a centaur. “Come along, Miss Vere.” In the same tone he’d told Dove to get up. His terrier, Jock, followed at his heel, giving Adele a look of canine superiority. He must have learned that from his master.

  Adele grit her teeth and put her heel to the horse. Dove simply lifted her head and gave a great sigh.

  “I’m not any happier about it than you are,” Adele muttered.

  With another tap of Adele’s heel and whip, Dove started off after Mr. Coyne and Clarion.

  The day was dark and chilled, the same as it had been all summer. Even now, she continued to wear her woolen underclothes lest she freeze.

  Mr. Coyne rode farther and farther away from her, the eager steed dancing beneath him no match for the plodding Dove. He sat the horse quietly, his broad shoulders covered in a heavy coat, a low cap pulled tight on his head. His clothing was that of any common laborer, for all that he carried himself with such easy insolence.

  And touched her with such common boldness.

  Except for his boots—those were the boots of a gentleman. Rising to his knees as they hugged his calves, the soles thin, they were not at all the heavy, low boots a laborer would wear. They were well worn, but also well cared for, the leather scuffed, yet supple.

  The old duke must have given him those boots. Never had Adele met a man more horse mad than the old duke. One day, out of nowhere, he’d ordered that she must learn to ride, landing her right into this mess. When he’d died, she supposed she could have stopped the lessons. No one else seemed to care if the governess could ride. But Adele wasn’t certain who to ask about it, and she didn’t want to attract undue attention. Someone might notice that the old duke’s ward and his governess were still about and decide that something must be done with them. Although nothing could be done with Thomas until the duke’s heir was found, thanks to the will his father had drawn up.

  Even so, better to keep quiet and remain unnoticed. She’d continued with the lessons simply because it was easier. And not because she dreamed of Mr. Coyne’s hands at her waist. Certainly not.

  They went deeper down the bridal path, making their way to the clearing they usually practiced in. She was grateful for the cover of the trees, concealing her ineptitude with the horse, no matter that it was a bit improper. Not that anyone would suspect her of having a tendre for the stable master. She’d never openly spoke of her dislike for him and his horses, but the infinitesimal curl of her lip and the stiffness of her back whenever he or her riding lessons were mentioned must have gotten the point across.

  An invaluable lesson from Mrs. Fairfield, that one: how to communicate distaste without actually speaking the words. Governesses and ladies’ companions and women in any of the other roles Adele had been expected to assume were never permitted to speak their feelings—but they still had them. They had to release the pressure of them somehow.

  Adele sometimes wondered if Mrs. Fairfield had been fully aware of what she was doing as she molded her foster daughter into the perfect, quiet English model of womanhood. As she rubbed away all the French edges of her husband’s bastard.

  Perhaps she had been. But she wasn’t here for Adele to ask any longer. Even if she were, it would be the height of unkindness to ask it. And Mrs. Fairfield—childless, betrayed Mrs. Fairfield—had been nothing but kindness to the living proof of her husband’s unfaithfulness.

  Adele shook off those thoughts. This dark summer had a potent effect on her, dredging up ruminations that were better left in the recesses of her mind. She needed to concentrate, to maintain control of the horse, and to hold up her chilled reserve in the face of Mr. Coyne’s knowing smiles.

  Not to mention his hands…

  She shook that off as they reached the clearing. It was quiet and still in the low light. Birds called, but in a muted way, as if the lack of warmth and sunshine had dimmed their spirits as well.

  Mr. Coyne’s expression showed nothing of low spirits as he pulled Clarion to a halt. Only pleased anticipation. He did so love tormenting her.

  “Trot poles, today,” he announced, with a grating cheerfulness. As if it were a bright summer day instead of this unending winter. Jock planted himself next to Clarion, giving her a look that sai
d, Get on with it.

  Trotting was so undignified, all of her bouncing and jouncing with the horse’s strides. So of course that was what Mr. Coyne would make her do.

  Adele tightened her grip on the reins and pointed Dove’s head at the four evenly spaced poles that she had to steer the horse across. All at a trot or else the horse’s hooves would strike the poles. And she had to post, rising from the saddle with each bump of the horse’s gait, lest she have her teeth jarred out of her head. And be chided by Mr. Coyne if she didn’t do it properly.

  The first few weeks she’d done this, her legs had ached so badly she could barely walk. It didn’t hurt as much now, but she still loathed it. If only she could blow out an exasperated breath. But that would be unladylike.

  Instead, she squared her shoulders and urged the horse forward, her thighs tightening as she braced herself. Dove lurched toward the poles. Too slowly—they’d never hit a trot at this pace. Adele dug her heel deeper into the horse’s flank.

  Dove tossed her tail and broke into a trot just before they went over the first pole.

  Bump, bump, bump, with Adele doing her best to bounce in time with the horse, her legs straining with the effort. Not to mention having to keep Dove pointing forward. Once they were over, Adele pulled Dove into a wide turn, feeling as if she were reining in a turtle and not one ancient workhorse.

  But she’d done it. Dove hadn’t hit a single pole, although it had felt like a close thing there for a moment. She turned a triumphant expression toward Mr. Coyne.

  He sat with arms crossed over the saddle pommel, entirely at ease even as Clarion worked at his bits and pawed the ground. How did the man do that?

  He raised an eyebrow. “Proud of yourself, are you?”

  The triumph drained away. What an insufferable man.

  “Dove did beautifully,” he said. “But you sat there like a sack of potatoes.”