Seduced by the Alpha prince

*Barkley* “I’ll consider your debt paid in full if you get my Luna with child.” I struggle to concentrate as I sit sprawled in a comfortable armchair in the well-appointed library. I’ve been downing excellent whiskey ever since my arrival at the Alpha of Seafort’s country estate for his once legendary hunt. After three hours, we are both well into our cups, so surely I’ve misunderstood. “Does your silence indicate your acceptance of the terms?” Seafort asks. I scrutinize my cousin and longtime friend, sitting in that damned wheelchair, where I had placed the Alpha three years ago. Seafort has aged considerably during that time, his light brown hair having gone white at the temples, his brown eyes somber enough to chase off any gaiety in the room. I release a dark chuckle. “I’ve had far too much to drink. You would not countenance what I thought you uttered.” “Jayne wants a child. I can’t give it to her. You owe me this.” I push myself out of the chair. I mean to do so with force. Instead, I stagger and almost lose my balance as I cross over to the fireplace. I press my forearm against the stone mantel to steady myself while I study the madly dancing flames. Within them, I can almost see the night I and Seafort barreled wildly through the London streets, the curricle traveling at a dangerous breakneck speed. I’ve wondered but never dared ask the full extent of Seafort’s injuries. We’ve seen each other seldom in the intervening years, that tragic night a guilty barrier between us. “I owe you your legs. Not my seed.” I say. “You owe me a bloody c**k!” He growls. Inwardly, I flinch, but I allow none of my rioting emotions to escape my calm facade. Instead, I concentrate more intently on the fire. The flames… red, blue, yellow, orange… swirl in a macabre waltz, no doubt a preview of what my eternity will most assuredly entail. I writhe within them for my sins, my poor judgment. I’ve been all of twentyfive. A cursed age for me and my brothers. Bryant married at twenty-five and was betrayed. Blake marched off to war, only to return a lost man. And I, who was always so damned responsible, manage to destroy a good man’s life. And a lovely she-wolf’s. And my own, if I’m honest about it. “Are you telling me that you can’t... that you...” I peer over at Seafort. I owe it to my childhood friend to at least hold his gaze when I ask. “That you can’t bed her?” “I’ve got no feeling.” Seafort pounds his thighs, slams a fist between his legs with enough force to make me cringe and the chair creak. “No feeling. She’s tried, bless her, she’s tried to make it work... but all it does is cause her to weep.” I feel as though my heart has been scored with a thousand daggers. We were in London celebrating that Jayne was at long last with child, possibly carrying Seafort’s heir. “I feel remarkably old at twenty-eight,” Seafort, three years my senior, had remarked. “I want to feel young again.” So we drank and drank and drank. And although Seafort was married, we even visited the beds of a couple of lovelies. I have never understood Seafort partaking in the latter entertainment or supported it. If Jayne were my mate... “Jayne would never agree to this mad notion of yours. She despises me.” I hardly blame her for her attitude toward me. In grief over her husband’s near death and debilitating injuries, she lost the child. Now it seems she has no hope of ever having another. She is the sort of she-wolf who should never be denied anything her heart desires. It was my second thought upon being introduced to her at the betrothal dinner held in her and Seafort’s honor: If you were mine, you would never do without. My first thought had been that I wished I had met her before Seafort, so certain was I that I would have been able to charm her into my arms. She is the loveliest she-wolf upon whom I’ve ever set eyes. Grace and poise mirror her every step. When she smiles, she makes a man feel as though he is all that matters. In no hurry to marry, I had avoided the soirees of mating Seasons past whenever possible. Thus I had missed the opportunity to meet and court Miss Jayne. Although to hear Seafort tell it, he snagged her heart during their initial dance. “You have a reputation for charming the She-wolves. Apply your talents to my mate,” Seafort says now, each word biting, clipped, as though forced between clenched teeth. “You want me to seduce her?” “I want you to give her what I cannot.” “This is ludicrous.” I shove myself away from the fireplace, drop back into the chair, which has suddenly become unbearably uncomfortable, rise, and stalk to the window. Unsettled, I refuse to acknowledge how often I’ve dreamed of Jayne, but I’ve never acted upon my interest. I live my life by a code of chivalry passed down from my ancestors who fought alongside Richard the Lycanheart during the crusades. I do not take she-wolves who belong to others. “Does she consent to this preposterous scheme of yours?” “I’ve not yet discussed it with her. I wanted to ensure you were in agreement with it before I did.” I face a man I no longer know. Has Seafort’s affliction driven him mad? “I can predict her answer with unerring accuracy. She’ll laugh, she’ll slap my face, and then she’ll weep. Not to mention the legal ramifications. If she gives birth to a boy, he will inherit. Even if all of England knows you are not his sire, you will be legally bound…” “You and I are not only friends, but cousins. We both carry the same blood blood. It would not be such an offense.” “The cousin who is next in line for your title might disagree.” “Syphilis is causing him to lose his mind. Besides, do you honestly believe that every lycan prince who sat upon the throne and became king was truly his father’s son? I doubt it. And I do not care about blood as much as I care about Jayne and seeing that she is happy.” But what of myself? I wonder. To have a son or daughter whom I could never acknowledge? Do I owe my cousin such a sacrifice? Although my recollections are a blur, I know I’d been driving the curricle. When it toppled, I was thrown clear, my only souvenir from the incident a thin scar that bisects the left side of my chin. Seafort had somehow managed to get caught up in the rigging. When everything finally came to a thundering halt, he’d been broken. Ghastly. Irrevocably. Broken. So broken his wolf hardly managed to save his life, and could not heal him. With so much liquor coursing through our veins, neither of us remembers the infinite details. We know only that I walked away with one small scratch and Seafort never walked again. “If I decline your invitation to bed your lovely luna?” I ask quietly, the abhorrence of being placed in this position tightening my gut. I’ve never taken a married she-wolf to my bed. Even the thought is repugnant. I believe in having a jolly good time with any willing she-wolf, as long as she possesses no mate to whom she owes her loyalty. I am a man who honors duty and vows. I hold others to my high standard. “I’ll simply ask someone else. And my mate could very well have a miserable night of it. But you, you’ve always had a reputation for being a remarkable lover. You could provide her with a night to remember.” I shake my head, “She would not welcome my touch.” “I’ve no doubt you could change her mind on that score.” “You seem to have discounted the importance of her not fancying me.” “Not at all. I consider it to our advantage that she doesn’t think well of you. It would reduce the encounter to a transaction. Unemotional. Detached. But knowing you, you would find a way to give her pleasure… and that would be my gift to her as well. She’s had three years of celibacy. She’s never complained, bless her, but she was all of twenty-two when joy was brutally stolen from her because of our poor choices. Why should she continue to suffer and pay the price for our sins? A night in the arms of London’s most reputed lover? Nine months later, a babe suckling at her breast.” I sigh, “You give my reputation too much credit. Even I cannot guarantee conception with only one encounter.” Seafort shrugs haplessly. Shoulders that had once been sturdy seem lost within his finely cut jacket. “A month, then. Someplace quiet, discreet.” The answers come much too quickly, without hesitation, as though we’ve previously engaged in this argument. “You’ve given this considerable thought.” “It’s all I think about. How to bring happiness to my mate. You owe me this, Barkley. You owe her.” “She’ll never agree to it.” “But if she does?” Before I can respond, the library door opens, and the she-wolf in question strolls in. The first time I saw her, she’d been smiling, her blue eyes alight with joy, her beauty transcendent. Now it is as though a shadow has fallen over her. She is small and delicate, much too delicate for the burdens she presently carries. She avoids looking at me as she approaches her mate. Her black hair is upswept. Flowing back and tucked neatly into place is the river of white she’s acquired near her temple three years ago as she dealt with the loss of her babe and her husband’s mobility. Her violet gown outlines her slender frame to perfection, and I have an unconscionable… and unforgivable… vision of easing that gown off her shoulders and skimming my mouth over her creamy skin. She would not consent. I know she would not consent. I am a blackguard to give even a second’s thought to how I would carry her into a sensual realm where only pleasure exists. She is my friend’s mate, for the Goddess sake, and Seafort, wallowing in that damned wheelchair, simply is not thinking properly. Jayne would set him straight right quick, and then she would no doubt hold me responsible for her husband’s ludicrous suggestion. Smiling softly, she bends at the waist and presses a light kiss to Seafort’s cheek. “Hello, darling.” When she straightens, she gazes at me as though I am a bit of excrement she’s recently scraped off the bottom of her shoe. “My prince.” I bow slightly. “Luma Seafort. May I say that you look lovely?” “You may say whatever you wish.” For my, she has no smile, no soft eyes, and no gentle tone. Seafort has indeed lost his mind if he thinks his mate is going to welcome any sort of intimacy from me. I suspect she would derive more pleasure from ramming a dagger through my heart than from experiencing my practiced touch. “Dinner awaits, gentlemen.” “Good. I’m quite famished,” Seafort announces. “Barkley, will you escort my luna into dinner?” “I don’t need an escort,” she says quickly. “However, Randall is not presently available, so perhaps the prince would be kind enough to assist you.” Her eyes as they meet mine hold a challenge and more. I know she wants to remind me of what my foolishness has wrought… as though I could ever forget it. “It would be my honor,” I respond succinctly, striding toward Seafort. As I push the chair forward, I am surprised to discover how much lighter it is than I remember. My friend is frailer than I’d realized. Knowing I am responsible, the guilt gnaws at me like a ravenous dog with a bone. My guilt increases when I find myself enticed by the lure of Jayne’s hips gently swaying as she precedes us from the room. I don’t want to contemplate the hell that awaits me if she consents to her husband’s insane notion to get her with child.