How to Seduce a Scoundrel (46 page)

Now at last she had a moment to contemplate her earlier conversation with Georgette. Though she typically shared almost everything with her bosom friend, there were things she’d not told her about Frederick.

At first, Amy had not realized that the young vicar’s interest in her amounted to anything more than friendly regard. He’d approved when he’d seen her taking food baskets to the sick and elderly in the village, and he’d called her thoughtful when he found her setting flowers on the graves at the churchyard. Soon after, he’d begun calling on her father regularly. Then one day, he’d asked her to walk with him. Somehow, without her quite realizing the significance, he’d made a habit of calling and taking her for walks. One thing had led to another until he’d spoken of the understanding.

Frederick was a good man, a devout man, who had
devoted himself to the church. Marriage to him would secure her future. Deep down, she felt marrying for that reason alone was wrong, and she knew Georgette would disapprove. Yet, Frederick had never spoken of tender feelings for her. Instead, he’d clearly stated they were practical people and were well suited.

The problem was she didn’t want to marry for practical reasons. Truthfully, she still yearned for the girlish dream of marrying for love, and it was so horribly foolish of her. With the exception of her participation in the Duke of Shelbourne’s courtship two years ago, no gentleman had ever expressed interest in her, until Frederick had come along.

She had to think of her parents and their concerns about her future. If something happened to them, she would be in a precarious position, for she had no other living relatives. She tried to persuade herself that she could be content with such a marriage. At least she could look forward to having her own home and children. But all was contingent upon an understanding becoming an engagement—one that, ironically, she didn’t want.

What she secretly wanted was to shed her wallflower reputation at long last. Then why was she in a dark library hiding from a rake who had probably forgotten her very existence? With a deep inhalation, she told herself to march back upstairs to that ballroom posthaste and mingle with all the other guests. She might be plain, but others had complimented her gown. Though she would never be beautiful, she could be elegant.

A light tap at the door froze her. As the door creaked open, she cringed. To her utter horror, a man walked inside and shut the door.

“Alicia, you’re here,” he said.

Oh, dear God. She knew that voice. It was the devil himself. He’d come here for an assignation—and found the wrong woman! As he walked forward, Amy held her breath. She thought of telling him he’d mistaken her identity but worried he would recognize her voice. If he knew, he would mock her, the same way he’d done last spring.

He stopped at her feet. “Why so silent? Is this a new game?”

She shook her head, hoping he would go away.

When he sat beside her, she tried to rise, but he caught her arm.

At her gasp, he chuckled. “Come now, you promised me a treat, and I’m famished.”

Before she could utter a single protest, he cupped her cheek and trailed his lips lightly over her mouth. No man had ever kissed her, but she’d expected a rake like him to ravish her lips. Then he drew his tongue over the seam of her mouth. Her lips parted involuntarily, and then he swept his tongue inside. Shock kept her still, but as he slid in and withdrew repeatedly, she lost the ability to think of anything beyond the intimacy of his invasion.

When he lifted his lips momentarily, she inhaled. The scent of him curled inside her like a dangerous elixir, one that curbed her ability to listen to the voice of reason. He sucked her tongue into his mouth, and she felt strangely possessed by him. Or was it merely lust muddling her brain? Whatever it was, she couldn’t find the strength to tell him he mustn’t kiss her in this wicked manner—or at all, for that matter. Unfortunately, the wanton she’d never known existed inside her kept saying,
Yes, yes, yes.

“You taste so sweet,” he said against her mouth. Then he trailed damp kisses down her neck. He cupped her
breast, plumping it up. She knew she ought to slap his hand away, but he pulled the fabric of her bodice down, exposing her naked flesh. When his mouth covered her nipple, her breathing shattered. As he suckled her, the most indescribable pleasure flowed through her veins. She was lost to the devil, lost in pleasure beyond her imagination, lost to everything but his sinful touches and kisses.

His hand swept over her skirt. When she realized he was bunching it upward and exposing her legs, fear brought her to her senses. She clamped her hand over his, knowing she must stop him.

He let go of the fabric, and she pulled her bodice up again. Though it was dark, she knew he was staring at her. He must have deduced that she wasn’t the hussy he’d meant to meet in the library. When she stood, he rose with her. She was tall, but he was half a head taller, and for reasons that made no sense, that intimidated her.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Shaking her head, she took one step back, meaning to escape.

A quick rap sounded at the door. She spun around and covered her mouth.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her behind the sofa. Then he put his finger to his lips as she crouched beside him. Her legs trembled, but she mustn’t move or her rustling skirts would give away their hiding place.

The door creaked open again. “Will? Are you in here?”

Amy squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for deliverance. If they were discovered alone in the dark, she would be ruined.

Footsteps padded across the carpet. “That sorry rake,” the woman muttered. “I’ll make him pay.” Her skirts
swished as her footsteps retreated. Then mercifully the door slammed.

He rose and offered his hand. She took it gratefully, because her legs felt a bit wobbly.

“Who are you?” he asked again.

She shook her head.

He squeezed her hand. “Tell me.”

“You do not want to know,” she whispered. Then she fled the library, closed the door behind her, and scurried toward the stairs. The entire time she prayed he would not follow her.

Upon reaching the ballroom doors, she paused to catch her breath. Then she smoothed her skirt and patted the curls by her ears. She wet her lips, hoping she didn’t look as if she’d just been thoroughly kissed by a rake. But she had, and a terrible realization filled her with shame.

She’d betrayed Frederick.

What a lark!

Will stood behind the sofa, bemused at the thought that he’d had an assignation with an unknown woman. After his heated encounter with the silent lady, he knew three things about her. She was tall, had long legs, and did not want him to know her name.

Something about her seemed familiar, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Of course, he’d realized early on that she wasn’t Alicia, who would have babbled nonstop—until he kissed her.

Because of her refusal to talk, he’d assumed he’d caught a married lady waiting for her lover. So, he’d decided to test her resolve by kissing her. She’d not tried to stop him, though she’d been rather passive. And that had made him
even more determined to wring a response out of her. When he’d suckled her, she’d made a little feminine sound in the back of her throat. He’d felt triumphant—until she’d stopped his straying hand from lifting up her skirts.

He’d known a lot of women, but he’d never met one quite like her. Something about her was off, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. He thought back over her reactions, and then he felt like a hammer had struck his head.

She’d not known how to kiss him back.

Good Lord, he’d dallied with an innocent. A shudder rolled up his spine. If anyone had discovered the two of them, he would have found himself snared in the parson’s mousetrap. To a lady he didn’t even know.

Will blew out his breath, relieved at his narrow escape. A pity about Alicia, though. He supposed she wouldn’t be too eager for a tumble after he’d supposedly failed to show for their tryst. With a shrug, he rounded the sofa and noticed something on the cushion. Intrigued, he picked up the silk item. On a whim, he put it in his pocket. Then he strode out of the library, crossed the great hall, and climbed the stairs.

After he entered the crowded ballroom, he found himself looking for a tall lady. Then he recollected that Alicia had called out his name. Will tugged on his cravat, realizing he might yet be in danger if the innocent young lady decided to confess to her mama. Then again, the mysterious lady had refused to identify herself. Undoubtedly, she didn’t want anyone to know she’d let a stranger kiss and touch her. Chances were he’d never discover her identity, and that was for the best.

On the other side of the rectangular ballroom, he saw
his brother Hawk and his sister-in-law Julianne. Shelbourne and his duchess were there as well. Will crossed the room, nodding occasionally at acquaintances.

When he reached the other side, he clapped Shelbourne on the shoulder. “Well met,” he said. He bowed to his mother and the dowager duchess. Then he shook hands with the Marquess of Boswood. “Looks like a regular reunion,” he said.

He caught sight of Boswood’s daughter Lady Georgette and her friend, the tall red-haired lady he remembered from his brother’s wedding. She glanced at him and turned away, not quite a cut direct, but close enough. Then he noticed something that nearly made him guffaw.

Will strolled over to the ladies and bowed to Lady Georgette. Then he stepped right beside Miss Amy Hardwick. A becoming blush suffused her cheeks. She unfurled her fan and wafted it.

He leaned closer to her. “I believe you’ve lost something.”

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “I beg your pardon?”

A grin tugged at his mouth. “I found something that belongs to you.”

“You are mistaken.” She applied her fan faster.

“I’m quite sure.” He reached inside his pocket and produced a pink silk rose with a stray thread. “I believe it matches the others on the back of your gown.”

She winced as he set it in her palm.

“I hope you enjoyed our little interlude as much as I did,” he said.

She closed her fingers over the silk rose. “Hush. Someone might hear.”

“What? That I kissed you?” He was thoroughly enjoying her embarrassment.

Her green eyes flashed. “If you were a gentleman, you would not have dared.”

“If you were a lady,” he said, purposely letting his voice rumble, “you would not have let me.”

London, 1816

T
he belles of the Beau Monde had resorted to clumsiness in an effort to snag a ducal husband.

Tristan James Gatewick, the Duke of Shelbourne, entered Lord and Lady Broughton’s ballroom and grimaced. A quartet of giggling chits stood near the open doors, dangling their handkerchiefs as if poised to drop them. Determined to avoid playing fetch again, he strode off along the perimeter of the room.

With a long-suffering sigh, he conceded he’d contributed to this national disgrace. Ever since the scandal sheets had declared him the most eligible bachelor in England, he’d rescued twenty-nine lace handkerchiefs, five kid gloves, and twelve ivory fans.

If only he could have convinced himself to choose a bride based upon the inelegance of her fumbling, he
might have wedded and bedded the most inept candidate by now. Alas, he could not abide the thought of spending a lifetime with Her Gracelessness.

He surveyed the crowd looking for the hostess of this grand squeeze, a useless endeavor. The crème de la crème swarmed the place like bees. The din of voices competed with the lively tune of a country dance, making his ears ring. He’d rather eat dirt than subject himself to the dubious delights of the marriage mart, but with his thirty-first birthday approaching, he could no longer pretend he was invincible. The dukedom had been at risk far too long.

Someone tapped a fan on his shoulder. He paused to find Genevieve and Veronica, two of his former mistresses. Seeing them together, he realized how alike the striking widows looked. Both were tall, dark-haired, and curvaceous. He canvassed the cobwebs in his brain and realized all of his past lovers had similar attributes. Well, those he could recollect.

Tristan bowed and lifted each of their hands for the requisite air kiss. “Ladies, it is a great pleasure to see you again.”

“Were your ears burning?” Veronica said in an exaggerated boudoir voice. “You are the subject du jour.”

“I am delighted,” he lied. He’d grown increasingly frustrated with the notoriety the papers had whipped up. How the devil he’d ever find a bride in this circuslike atmosphere evaded him. But find one he must.

Genevieve tittered. “We were comparing you to all of our other gentlemen admirers.”

He’d bedded more than his fair share of mistresses, but this situation was certainly unique among his experiences. “What did you conclude?”