How to Seduce a Scoundrel (45 page)

Tristan had taken Hawk aside and said he’d figured out the author. Hawk had nodded when Tristan told him it had to be Amy Hardwick. The girl was too silent, too secretive, he’d said. Hawk grinned at the memory. It was a good thing Tristan didn’t know half the things that had transpired in London.

When Brandon approached, Hawk noted his glum expression and took him aside. “What’s wrong, lad?”

“Will was all the crack until that redheaded girl arrived.”

Hawk blinked. “You mean Miss Hardwick?”

“That’s the one. She doesn’t say much. I think that’s why Will follows her around and tries to provoke her.”

Hawk shut his gaping mouth. Will and Amy Hardwick? He shook his head. His rogue of a brother would have no interest in a shy little flower like Miss Hardwick. “Let’s keep this under covers for now,” Hawk said.

“Suits me,” Brandon said. “I don’t see what’s so great about girls.”

Hawk ruffled his hair. “You will someday.”

“Oh, there are the gents.” Brandon dashed through the crowd.

Hawk turned and took Julianne’s hands. “At last we’re alone.”

“Not for long,” she said as her brother and Tessa approached.

Tristan kissed Julianne on the cheek. Then he clapped his hand on Hawk’s shoulder.

“I’ll take good care of her,” Hawk said.

Tessa’s lips twitched. “Men. I daresay she is the one who will take good care of you.”

“Duchess, I concede the point to you,” Hawk said.

Tristan rolled his eyes. “Save the pretty lies for when you’ll need them. Tonight’s a sure thing.”

Tessa swatted him with her fan. A cracking sound spelled doom for the ivory sticks. “You broke it,” Tessa cried.

Tristan grinned. “Allow me to make reparations.”

Julianne smiled as Tessa tugged her brother along the perimeter of the ballroom. Then Hester approached and eyed Hawk through her quizzing glass. “You could have taken her upstairs thirty minutes ago.”

Hawk winced. “Hester, please.”

“Go on now, while nobody’s paying attention,” his aunt said.

Hawk took Julianne’s arm and they left the ballroom. He took her upstairs and left her in the care of a maid. Then with the help of Tristan’s valet, Hawk undressed and donned a banyan robe. He sat on a chair, watching the clock, counting the minutes until he could go to her. He’d give her a half hour.

The connecting door opened. He stood and walked to the door. She fled into his arms and hugged him hard. Her hair was loose and flowing to her waist. He shut the door, lifted her in his arms, and took her to the bed where the covers were already turned down.

He tossed the prim night rail off the bed and started planting kisses at the top of her head and worked his way down to her feet. When he jiggled her toe, she laughed. He slid up her beautiful slim body, and she welcomed him with outstretched arms. Tonight would be slow, all for her.

She threaded her fingers in his hair as he suckled her breasts. He ran his tongue down her belly and slid his hands under her bottom. “Spread your legs for me,” he said.

When he flicked his tongue rapidly along her slick
folds, she writhed beneath him. He slid two fingers inside her, and the sounds of moisture made his cock rock-hard. She was panting when he entered her. Then he pinned her wrists against the bed, because he’d remembered the glazed way she’d looked at him when he’d pinned her against his aunt’s sofa. Her swollen lips parted and he took that as an invitation for his tongue.

He slid his cock in and out so slowly he thought he’d go mad with the need to pump harder, but he wanted it to last a long, long time. He reached between them and rubbed her high along her slick folds, and a little feminine sound came out of her throat as she shattered. He could no longer hold back and thrust inside her faster and faster. When the throbbing ecstasy overcame him, she locked her legs around him.

He collapsed and then rolled to his side, still joined inside her. “I love you, Julianne. And I promise to say that to you every night before we go to bed and when we awake in the morning.”

“I love you, Marc.”

They slept for a while, and then he woke her by pulling her atop him. He pressed her forward so he could suck her nipples while she rode him. The sound of her throaty moans pleased him. She came with a little cry, and he wasn’t far behind.

He rolled them to their sides, and she grinned. “I can’t believe I snared you in the parson’s mousetrap.”

“I’ll get you for that,” he said. When he tickled her, she shrieked.

They tussled about the bed, laughing and teasing as they’d always done. He made love to her once more and knew he couldn’t have chosen a better wife.

Because she’d made him a better man.

London, 1818

Y
ou are
not
a spinster, and I will not let you marry that stuffy vicar,” Georgette said.

Amy Hardwick drew in a steadying breath as she and her friend Lady Georgette Danforth minced about the Beresford’s loud ballroom. “Mr. Crawford is sensible, not stuffy, and he has not proposed.”

“Only because I snatched you away from certain doom,” Georgette grumbled as she twirled a blond curl around her finger. “I saw the disapproval in his expression just before we left Hampshire.”

“He was disappointed that I would be away all of the spring season,” Amy said.

The day before she’d journeyed with Georgette and her family to London, Mr. Frederick Crawford had asked her if they had an “understanding.” Amy had bitten her
lip and looked at the ground, hesitating to make a commitment. He’d taken her arm and said he was glad she’d agreed. They were both practical people and well suited. For a moment, she’d wanted to reproach him for his presumption, but she’d swallowed the words. After five previous seasons, she could not afford to be anything but realistic about her marriage prospects.

Georgette halted beside a pillar. “Amy, I believe he means to propose. Will your parents try to persuade you to accept him?”

“They would never force me to marry anyone.” But the day she’d told her mother that Georgette had invited her to spend the season with her in London, her mother had frowned. And then she’d asked Amy if she thought it wise to leave “just now.” Her mother’s question had left no doubt that her parents worried about her future. She’d known then that they held hopes Mr. Crawford would offer marriage.

Afterward, Amy had nearly sent her regrets to Georgette, but something inside her had rebelled. She would not give up the chance to see her friend based upon an understanding, one she’d never even agreed upon. But there was something else she wanted—for herself. One last chance to kick up her heels, because this, her last season, would be her only opportunity.

Of course, she’d never dared to flirt and tease the young men like the other belles. She wished she could be as glib as Georgette and match wits with the gentlemen. But in a large gathering, she always found herself tongue-tied and overwhelmed. This year she swore would be different.

“Amy, your gown is stunning!”

She looked up in surprise to find Sally, Suzanne,
Beatrice, and Priscilla approaching quickly. When they admired her white crepe gown over a satin slip, she thanked them.

“You must tell us who your dressmaker is,” Priscilla said. “I simply must have something equally lovely.”

“I agree,” Suzanne said. “Your gown is bound to be all the rage.”

“I love the emerald ribbons that flow all the way down the back of the gown,” Sally said. “The pink rosebuds are a lovely touch as well. Whoever designed this gown is brilliant.”

Georgette gave Amy a speaking look. “Will you tell or shall I?”

Heat crept into Amy’s face, but she’d vowed to overcome her timidity. “I confess I drew the design and asked a local dressmaker to make it up for me.” She did not tell them that she’d asked the dressmaker to make over her old gowns in order to keep the expense of another season to a minimum. While her father would have given her anything, she’d not wanted to burden her parents when this was her sixth season, and gowns in the first stare of fashion were costly.

The other ladies exclaimed over her talent and begged her to design gowns for them. Georgette told them all to call later in the week to discuss Amy’s designs. Within moments, a crowd of matrons and single belles gathered round to inspect Amy’s gown. When Hester, Lady Rutledge, joined them, she declared Amy the fashion darling of the ton.

Georgette’s cheeks dimpled as she smiled at Amy. “I knew you would be popular this year,” she murmured.

Amy kept smiling and nodding while the crowd kept
growing. As others squeezed closer and spoke louder, the cacophony of voices rang in her ears. She found it impossible to say a word when so many spoke all at once. Eventually, she could bear no more and turned to Georgette. “Please excuse me,” she said. “I will return directly.”

“Shall I come with you?” she asked.

Amy shook her head. “I only need a few moments of air,” she said in an undertone.

“Very well,” Georgette said. “I will look for your return.”

Amy left the ballroom, meaning to go upstairs to the retiring room. But on the opposite side of the landing, a familiar-looking gentleman with dark, wavy hair stood whispering to a lady with rouged cheeks. With a wicked chuckle, the man leaned back against the railing. Amy nearly swallowed her tongue upon recognizing Mr. William Darcett.

Determined to evade him, she hurried downstairs. That man had tormented her last spring when she’d attended her friend Julianne’s wedding. He’d taken to calling her “Red” because of her carrot-colored hair and had followed her about for his own amusement. Since then, she’d heard rumors that he’d raked his way across the Continent. He was a typical, dissolute younger son, with no ambition but to wench and gamble. The scandal sheets had even called him Devil Darcett.

Devil Darcett was the last man she wanted to encounter this evening.

At the bottom of the stairs, she turned right and treaded along an unlit, deserted corridor, hoping to find her way out to the back garden. But a slightly-ajar door to a dark room beckoned her. She looked left and right, but
no one was about. Promising herself she would stay only a few moments, she slipped inside, closed the door, and waited for her eyes to adjust. Although the objects in the shrouded room remained indistinct, she could make out tall shelves along one wall. No doubt this was Lord Beresford’s library. Upon seeing a sofa, she padded across the plush carpet and settled onto the cushion. Eventually the tension in her limbs eased a bit.

Perhaps she’d overreacted. After all, the devil had found an unscrupulous strumpet to entertain him. Of course, she needn’t have worried at all if she’d stayed with her friends in the ballroom. She ought to have forced herself to remain. But no matter how hard she tried, she simply could not bear too much stimulation. She often spent hours in her room, because she needed to be alone in order to think.