Seduce Me, Sir

By Allyson Jeleyne

Lady Augusta Cherrill is barreling toward spinsterhood faster than her feet can keep up. When she takes a tumble down the stairs at the social event of the Season, Gussie is delighted to discover a handsome, intriguing, wholly unsuitable stranger picking her up and dusting her off. Did she bump her head—or has fate finally delivered the answer to her prayers?

Sir Malcolm Sharpe left Scotland as a young man to make his fortune in the Canadian frontier. Now he’s back, as rich as a king, to claim his rightful place in London society. The rugged fur trader may have survived fifteen years in the wilderness...but is he strong enough to withstand the force of nature that is Lady Augusta Cherrill?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allyson Jeleyne
• Release date: Apr 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9798215776179

Allyson Jeleyne

Allyson Jeleyne is a writer of bold, passionate historical romance featuring kind heroes, complex heroines, and (sometimes) steamy love. Her characters are adventurers, entrepreneurs, heiresses, prostitutes, peeresses, and, most importantly, survivors.She earned an interdisciplinary studies degree in Creative Writing and Journalism while also studying British history & literature in her spare time. When not writing, she enjoys traveling and checking things off her bucket list.She makes her home in the South Carolina lowcountry with her beloved dog, Dollie Madison (2005-2022).

Book preview

SEDUCE ME, SIR

Cherrill Family, Book Three

Allyson Jeleyne

CHAPTER ONE

London, 1855

He’d never grow accustomed to the stink of a city. Sir Malcolm stalked the pavements like a feral creature, like a trapped wildcat pacing back and forth alongside the bars of its cage. He reached the corner kerbstone, stopped to sniff the rancid air, and—scowling—returned the way he came.

Gorstan was late. Doubtless, his cousin was rarely subjected to the filth of the gutters, the foul odor rising from the sewers, or the crowds of men slogging through it all. No indeed, for Lord Gorstan was civilized.

Unlike Malcolm’s branch of the family, there had been a fortune and a peerage for the young viscount. A public school education and a stint at university. Gorstan’s life had been mapped out for him from birth, while Malcolm inherited a baronetcy with no ties to anyone, and had been free to make his own way.

He pitied tamed, tardy Lord Gorstan.

Malcolm produced his pocket watch and checked the time. A slight film hazed the timepiece, and he wiped his thumb across the glass to clear it. Soot smeared to reveal the hour, which wasn’t late at all—smoke from the chimney stacks and nearby steam locomotives had settled over the skyline, dimming the sun. It was only teatime.

He would give his cousin five more minutes before hailing a hack of his own and heading toward Brown’s Hotel. Malcolm needed no escort to navigate these narrow, reeking alleys. He’d survived fifteen winters in the Canadian wilderness. Surely, he could survive London.

After pacing another length of pavement, he watched as a carriage rounded the corner and slowed to a stop. The coachman drew the horses up, reining in the beautiful beasts—a perfectly matched pair—as they fussed and nickered.

The passenger stuck his ginger head through the open window, shouting, I say! Aren’t you Malcolm Sharpe?

Malcolm nodded, stepping from the kerb to approach his cousin.

Lord Gorstan studied his black hair and grim, tanned face. I knew you at a glance, for you’ve still got our grandmother’s coloring. His eyes darted over Malcolm’s overlarge, burly frame. And her build.

Both men laughed, for that was true enough!

Granny Muick was a strong, stout, handsome woman, and had been dearly loved by her grandsons. Malcolm had left Scotland not long after her death, and was forever grateful to the old woman for bequeathing him just enough in her will to fund his Atlantic crossing.

He extended his hand to his cousin, all too happy to match the man’s teasing tone. Sorry to drag you from your tea—I’ve heard you lot are mad for the stuff.

"Well, it is the civilized man’s drink of choice. Gorstan grinned. Speaking of, how are you finding England?"

Malcolm noted the scarred bricks of the old station and the grimy pavements. Where was the crisp air, the smell of damp earth, and the color of an endless horizon?

It’s different than what I’m accustomed to.

Gorstan shrugged, making room for him in the carriage. Isn’t that the point?

Malcolm had returned after making his fortune. He wanted to reconnect with his cousin and see something of the world, for a great deal had changed since he’d set off into the Canadian frontier. Shouldn’t a man of wealth, birth, and daring step out of his comfort now and then?

He wanted to sample the delights of London before charting a new chapter of his life.

That was what Malcolm loved, and what he pitied Lord Gorstan for never knowing—the freedom to go anywhere and be anyone. He could try his hand at anything. A viscount could never take such risks, for too many people depended on a peer.

Thankfully, no one depended on Sir Malcolm Sharpe.

Gorstan’s carriage clattered through the streets. Horses’ hooves clipped over the slick cobblestones and echoed off the slate roofs. Malcolm spared a glance at his surroundings, but everything was a blur of pallid faces and pasted placards.

He returned his attention to his cousin, asking, This place Brown’s...

Lord Gorstan stretched out, propping his booted feet up on the bench across from him. Ah, yes, about that. I am sorry I couldn’t put you up at my lodgings, but I’ve only one bed in my set of rooms. Bachelor’s quarters, you understand.

Malcolm had no desire to share a cramped space with his cousin, and was wealthy enough to have given up sleeping on sofas. Still, he couldn’t begrudge the fellow some economy before he had a wife and children draining his bank balance.

Gorstan continued, Brown’s Hotel is well-known among the smart set. The food is excellent, and they aren’t greedy with the wine, but if you’re seeking diversion, I’m afraid you’ll need to look off-premises. In fact, I’m attending a ball tonight and could use someone to watch my back if I’m to win a worthy beauty. You’ll meet no bears threatening to tear you limb-from-limb, said Gorstan, only packs of rabid debutantes grappling for your purse strings.

I’d rather take on a bear…

Aye! Which is why you’ll be bored stiff sitting ‘round Brown’s all night. Come to the Cranleigh ball. Allow me to show you a good time whilst you’re in town.

A society ball stuffed with lords, ladies, and their matchmaking mothers was—to Malcolm, at least—the antithesis of a ‘good time’. He’d rather get blistering drunk in his hotel room than waltz with the nobility. He had left their world behind him ages ago…

But hadn’t he come to London to spend time with his cousin? Had he not traveled three thousand miles across the roaring Atlantic for the thrill of something novel, something perilous?

What could be more perilous than two eligible bachelors facing a room full of marriage-minded girls?

CHAPTER TWO

There were nights when Lady Augusta Cherrill swore she was the bravest person she knew. Braver, even, than the soldiers fighting in the Crimea, for there was glory in their triumph, heroism in their defeat.

For Gussie—whether victorious or vanquished in her quest to make her family proud—only matrimony awaited at the end of her campaign.

Mater would call her ill-mannered to even think such a thing, but when one had reached one’s third Season without a proposal, one was bound to become a bit churlish. And so, for the hundredth time that year, Lady Augusta spent hours washing and dressing her hair, donned the prettiest Parisian ballgown that a ducal fortune could buy, and joined the line of debutantes converging on yet another Mayfair townhouse.

Gussie sized up the competition—doe-eyed schoolgirls in virginal white taffeta and dainty pink mousseline. Sheltered country gentry with bosoms as pale and soft as fresh cream. Peers’ daughters who had perfected their charms in the nursery and needed only to step into the positions that society had made for them. She knew some of their names and almost all of their faces, though many of Gussie’s friends were married now.

Indeed, their hostess this evening had come out alongside Augusta, yet Elizabeth—now Lady Cranleigh—had made an excellent match in her very first Season, and was enjoying the freedom of life as a married woman.

Gussie smiled as she greeted her beautiful, fashionable friend. Lizzie! How good of you to invite me! They embraced, and then deployed their fans to cool their faces, as if the strain of climbing a flight of stairs to kiss one another’s cheeks was simply too much for their feminine constitutions. What a crush!

Elizabeth glanced at the gathered throng with pride. Cranleigh worried whether we’d fit three hundred guests into the house.

All good hostesses knew that the secret to a successful party was leaving their guests with nowhere else to go. If everyone worth seeing was at Cranleigh House, no one dared to be left out of the fun.

Augusta nodded. I do believe I heard some poor girl had to be carried to the retiring room, for her slippers had been trampled and her toes smashed to putty!

The ladies laughed. They linked arms and crossed the expanse of marbled landing. Together, they peered over the balustrade to observe the partygoers in the ballroom below. Couples spun on the dance floor, bumping into one another. Footmen sloshed trays of champagne, weaving precariously through the groups of guests mingling along the perimeter of the space. Gentlemen laughed, ladies tittered. Spinsters and matrons stood as chaperones, watching the young, unmarried people with a careful, perhaps envious gaze.

Augusta and Elizabeth’s eyes fell upon a company of bachelors clustered at the bottom of the stairs. Gussie knew a few who were friends of her brothers, but one fellow she recognized only by reputation. Some men—or so it seemed—existed beyond the reach of even a duke’s daughter.

The two ladies sighed in unison at the sight of that tall, ginger-haired, perfect specimen of manhood: Gorgeous Gorstan!

Gussie hid her flaming cheeks behind her fan. How on Earth did you get an invitation into Lord Gorstan’s hands?

It had been the mission of every society hostess and meddlesome mama to scrawl the viscount’s name onto their guest list. He was awfully particular about which parties he attended and discriminating about whom he danced with.

Elizabeth was reluctant to acknowledge that fact. Well, he is looking for a wife…

All of London knew that Viscount Gorstan had traveled from his Highland estate in search of a bride. But with the Season nearly over, he’d still not selected a lady worthy of his wealth and name.

There are only so many parties, dinners, and outings left before society retreats to their country houses, Elizabeth continued. Not even Gorgeous Gorstan can afford to be so choosy.

Hearing this, Gussie glanced down at the fellow with renewed interest. He had passed on debutantes of wealth, beauty, and noble lineage. He had looked over every unmarried lady that the ton could offer him, yet he remained unspoken for.

Perhaps there was more to Lord Gorstan than met the eye. Perhaps the stunning Scottish viscount was secretly hoping for a love match!

Gussie’s parents had loved each other. She saw how deeply Edward—her eldest brother, who was also the Duke of St. Lawrence—loved Margaret, his wife of nearly two years. She saw how passionately Douglas—her roguish middle brother—loved Lady Phoebe, even though she had birthed an illegitimate child.

Augusta wanted love. She yearned to feel such a connection, though no man had given her butterflies yet. If only Lord Gorstan could see her, he might recognize a kindred spirit.

I ought to talk to him, she said. This could be her one chance to capture the man’s attention! Breathless with excitement, she turned to Elizabeth. You’re our hostess. You also happen to be my friend. It would be perfectly natural for you to introduce me to our fellow guests. And Gorstan just so happens to be standing at the foot of the stairs. Why don’t we descend into the ballroom in search of some refreshment, and pause for a moment to greet the fellow?

Elizabeth flapped her fan, yet shrugged her shoulders. I cannot guarantee anything will come of it.

That’s alright, she said, guiding her reluctant matchmaker away from the balustrade. What harm is there in putting two unmarried young people in each other’s path?

They shouldered toward the sweeping marble staircase and joined the other partygoers as they herded down the stairs.

With her gaze narrowly set on Lord Gorstan’s handsome, ginger-haired form, Gussie descended with spine straight, bosoms uplifted, head held high, and hems aloft. But only a fool wouldn’t watch where they were going…

Stumbling, she felt for the treads with the toe of one leather slipper, but found only empty space. Panic rose in her throat. Gussie groped for the lower stair. She clutched at Elizabeth Cranleigh’s arm with desperate fingers, but felt her grip slip as the line of guests pressed onward, oblivious to the danger they posed.

Crush, indeed! Gussie was in danger of being trampled!

Oh! She shouted and flailed. Her feet slipped and scrabbled helplessly.

Lord Gorstan looked up at whatever pathetic, animal sound she made and watched—horrified—as Lady Augusta Cherrill tumbled down the grand staircase and landed in a heap before all of polite society.

CHAPTER THREE

Malcolm had never attended a society party. He’d been too young to attend them when he’d first left home and had been too poor for most of his adulthood to warrant an invitation. Only now that he was back in England—as rich as a king—was his presence tolerated among the aristocracy.

No one had turned him away at the door, at any rate.

He entered Cranleigh House at Gorstan’s side. The two cousins were dressed in identical black evening clothes, pressed and starched and tailored to within an inch of their lives. The tall points of his collar strangled him. The patent leather shoes pinched his feet, even though they’d cost five guineas. Malcolm felt more comfortable in tweeds, furs, and woolens, but even he must admit—catching sight of his reflection in the polished pier glass of Lady Crangleigh’s ballroom—he cut a damned fine dash!

He appeared almost civilized.

Almost.

His smile was feral and his eyes were hunting, always hunting, though for what he did not know. He had no friends, recognized no familiar faces. The ladies, however, were pretty enough to catch his gaze.

Women flocked to Gorstan, who was attractive, amiable, and popular. His handsome cousin introduced them to Sir Malcolm Sharpe, a born Scotsman though lately of Hudson’s Bay. These Mayfair darlings were curious about his past, his fortune, and the life he’d lived in the wilderness. A few of them were interested in an assignation, though Malcolm was no show pony or stud to be trotted out for the amusement of bored, rich women.

He did not care to dance, and neither did Gorstan. The pair joined a group of other fellows near the foot of the wide, sweeping marble staircase. They wanted to see and be seen, to judge and to make jokes about every nervous debutante, flirtatious widow, and haughty dowager that crossed their path. These girls and matrons were at the mercy of the jackals, forced into display as they descended the stairs.

This parade put a bad taste in Malcolm’s mouth.

Surely, Granny Muick had taught Gorstan better. Even Malcolm himself knew that making a woman uncomfortable was bad behavior, yet his cousin considered it a silly game.

Now there’s a pretty piece, said Gorstan over the rim of his champagne glass. He nodded toward a young lady of some distinction in a vibrant, red silk frock, her neck blazoned with rubies and diamonds. Minnie Mercer, married all of two years and already on the prowl. Too bad her husband is a jealous chap, as she’ll give him no end of trouble.

Another gentleman elbowed forward to point out, Here comes Elizabeth Cranleigh! Had you been quicker on the draw, Gorstan, you might’ve bagged her for yourself.

Their hostess was petite, blonde, and freshly beautiful. She wore a pink frock and a pleasant smile, though a delicate blush stained her cheeks. Lady Cranleigh must’ve sensed that she was being admired by this gang of guests. She clutched the arm of her friend, fanning her flushed face wildly.

The girl by Lady Cranleigh’s side blanched, lurched, and went wide-eyed with panic. Unlike their hostess, this doughy, dark-haired creature collapsed under so much scrutiny. She looked as if she might swoon.

Oh, God, not Gussie Cherrill, his cousin muttered. Any fellow who manages to see past her looks has the misfortune of enduring her personality—it’s a bitter defeat on every front, I say!

The jackals laughed.

Malcolm did not find her unattractive, though her appearance paled in comparison to ladies like Elizabeth Cranleigh and Minnie Mercer. She was plump and bonny, with thick, dark brows that were perhaps too expressive for her roundish face.

Another fellow remarked, It’s the faint shadow of her mustache that puts me off!

They all laughed except for Malcolm. He kept his eyes focused on the girl, who now appeared to be in very real distress. She reminded him of an animal caught in a snare, pulling and writhing, desperate to free itself, only becoming more and more entangled until he’d put it out of its misery.

Malcolm started toward her as she reached the landing, her body carried powerlessly in the current of partygoers who were eager to reach the dance floor. She was falling, he realized, too late.

Her backside bounced against the marble treads. Her skirts swept up her legs, exposing silk-clad ankles and a pale expanse of thighs where her garter ribbons ended. She landed in a flurry of lacy petticoats and flouncy under drawers.

Her face went crimson, yet her lingerie was as white as snow.

The women Malcolm had known in his past could not afford such fripperies. They wore sensible, boilable linens and serviceable, homespun garments. They’d either been hard-worn frontierswomen or fresh off the boats to Canada, and their lives had not been easy. They had been gaunt, scarred, and sickly. The sight of this girl—this Gussie Cherrill—was like a sweet sip of cream after a mouthful of grit.

While the others laughed and gawked at her misfortune, she pushed down her skirts to save her modesty and attempted to drag herself to her feet. She was brave, but Malcolm saw her hands trembling beneath her doeskin gloves.

He alone stepped forward to assist her. He placed his fingers beneath her elbows and hauled her upright. She turned to face him with tears in her eyes, for her pride smarted.

She was angry at being humiliated so publicly.

Are you hurt? he asked.

She shook her head. No, I’m not hurt.

When he moved to let her go, she wobbled gracelessly. Are you certain, lass?

She wrenched her arms away from him. Certainly!

Malcolm could see her clearly now, standing an inch or two apart. The top of her head brushed beneath his nose. She wore a peach-colored frock with a low bodice and a profusion of silk blossoms erupting from her bosom. They matched the ones woven into her dark hair, which had been styled in bouncing sausage curls.

This styling did nothing for her appearance, but clothing had never impressed him much. His own wardrobe had been patched, darned, and faded for most of his life.

She must’ve wondered why he was staring at her. I’m fine. I merely fell, she told him. As you can see, I am not graceful…

Nay, but you’re sturdy, replied Malcolm, aware of the eyes and ears trained in their direction. There’s not a mark on you.

Gorstan stepped forward, wishing to ingratiate himself into the scene. He could never resist being at the center of attention. I say! Lady Augusta, that was quite a tumble. Are you alright?

She seemed to wilt in his handsome presence. I’m fine, thank you.

Then allow me the pleasure of making my cousin, Sir Malcolm Sharpe, known to you. He’s new in town and a bit rough ‘round the edges, though a decent chap at heart. To Malcolm, he said, Mal, this is Lady Augusta Cherrill. He waggled his eyebrows as though the two men shared a funny joke. She is the only sister of the Duke of St. Lawrence.

Malcolm wasn’t laughing.

Gorstan ought not to mock the girl.

Would you like to step out and get some air, my lady? asked Malcolm. I believe there’s a terrace somewhere hereabouts.

"Yes, it’s