Seducing the Groom by Cheryl Holt Page A

words kept getting lost in the sensual timbre of any utterance.
    Narrowing his gaze, he studied her rounded behind, trying to deduce if she was mocking him with her flip adieu . Was she jesting? Was she serious?
    She had to be joking. She had to be!
    Though she’d readily and freely yielded to his ultimatum that theirs would be a marriage of convenience, how could she blandly acquiesce to his rushing out to cavort with others on their wedding night? Had she no feelings in the matter? Was she genuinely unconcerned about where he went or what he did? What woman—what wife!—could be so tolerant, so unmoved? What kind of person was she?
    There was the crux of his problem. He had no idea.
    She was an American, and he’d been acquainted with very few in his twenty-nine years, so the explanation for her peculiar apathy might be buried in the fact that she was a foreigner. Perhaps American women held their men to a lower standard. Though he doubted it. A contrary culture and upbringing couldn’t alter basic feminine instincts that much.
    By nature, females were possessive, jealous, and suspicious. Every one with whom he’d ever dallied had exhibited the invidious tendencies, and his wife—deep down—couldn’t be any different. Reluctantly, he was forced to concede that she wasn’t upset about his rudely trotting off because she didn’t care about their marriage anymore than he did.
    The realization vexed him enormously.
    On his end, he’d perceived their speedy, abrupt courtship and union as a simple business transaction. She—Ellen Foster, twenty-five-year-old daughter of a wealthy Massachusetts cotton mill magnate—had wanted the English title that her daddy’s money could buy. He—disowned, disinherited, impoverished scoundrel and libertine—had needed a quick infusion of cash so he could thumb his nose at his stubborn father, and so he could afford his pursuit of the depraved, wicked lifestyle on which he thrived.
    The pragmatic solution conferred infinite benefits to both parties, but evidently, she’d embraced all the terms—those in writing, as well as those upon which they’d privately agreed.
    How the notion galled!
    She spun toward him, startling him with her stunning emerald eyes. Those eyes invariably took him unawares, amazing him with their intensity, their keen estimation and reflection. Whenever she peered at him straight on, he suffered the uncanny sensation that she discerned much more about him than she should, that she understood much more than was fitting or warranted.
    She tipped her glass. “Would you like a whiskey before you go?”
    “Why not?” he replied, pondering what would possess him to linger. She returned to the sideboard to fill a second tumbler, and he meticulously assessed her.
    For many months, she’d been dawdling in London, flaunting her assets and sending out tentative inquiries to numerous potential suitors, but he hadn’t crossed paths with her in the social whirl. His initial contact had come through a solicitor who’d approached him confidentially, and he’d been supplied with a financial contract and an astonishing, unforeseen overture of marriage.
    No sane gentleman—especially one in his dire fiscal condition—would have balked at the offer.
    Originally, he’d assumed her decision had been precipitate and inadvertently made. Upon further deliberation, he’d been left with the eerie conviction that her choice hadn’t been random in the slightest, that she was a shrewd negotiator and schemer who’d been surveying the viable candidates, and who had settled on him for reasons that remained a complete mystery.
    The dastardly wench had unquestionably known how to go about getting what she wanted, and she’d obviously wanted him and no other.
    Prior to the wedding, he’d met with her only once, at the lawyer’s office, but she’d been surrounded by her imposing father, a cadre of male relatives, and several bodyguards. Conservatively attired, she’d had her