To Sin With A Scoundrel (22 page)

“Hush, and don’t try to move.” Ciara bit her lip to keep it from quivering. “I‘ve not yet had a chance to check for any broken
bones.”

“I’d rather that you move your hand lower, sweetheart—” His words cut off in a grunt of pain.

She smoothed the tangle of hair from his brow and undid the top fastening of his collar. People were starting to gather and
someone cried out, “Send for a surgeon!”

Lucas swore a ragged oath. “I don’t need a bloody surgeon. I’ve just had the wind knocked out of me. Help me up.”

“Lie still, sir.” Ciara kept her hand on his chest. Despite his protest, he looked to be hurting.

“Hadley!”

She looked up to see a tall, dark-haired gentleman elbowing his way through the onlookers. “What happened?” he demanded, dropping
to his knees beside her. “How serious are his injuries?”

“It’s hard to say until I get a closer look at him,” she replied.

“Remind me to get trampled by a horse every day.” Lucas lifted an eyelid. “Jack, I must say, you are a sight for sore eyes.
Clear a path through this cursed crowd and help me home.”

“Run over by a horse,” repeated Jack. “Hell, didn’t I warn you that consorting with the Wicked—”

“Jack,” interrupted Lucas. “Allow me to introduce Lady Sheffield and her son.”

Ciara saw the stranger grind his jaw in embarrassment.

“Lady Sheffield, this is Lord James Jacquehart Pierson.”

“A pleasure, madam,” said Jack gruffly.

“I doubt it,” she said softly.

The retort drew a grudging twitch of the gentleman’s mouth. “Forgive my rudeness. Concern for my friend caused me to speak
without thinking.”

“I am concerned, as well.” She turned up Lucas’s lapel to ward off the breeze. “We need to move him. The earth is damp, and
I don’t want to risk the chance of his catching a chill.”

“My curricle is close by. Perhaps I can lift him—”

“Damn it, Jack, I’m not deaf. Or dead,” muttered Lucas. “Give me a hand and I can stand.”

He did, but only barely.

“Slowly,” she cautioned, slipping her arm around his waist. Between the two of them, they managed to get Lucas settled in
the curricle.

“Where to?” asked Jack, taking up the reins.

“Home,” answered Lucas.

“Absolutely not,” said Ciara, overriding the earl’s order. “Drive on to Pont Street, Lord James, so I may ascertain that Lord
Hadley has not suffered any internal injury.”

Jack hesitated and then flicked his whip. “Pont Street it is.”

A
s he lowered himself from the curricle, Lucas felt as if he had been pummeled by a half-dozen pugilists. If this was the reward
for doing a good deed, no wonder he had chosen to be an imp of Satan.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, leaning on Jack more than was manly.

“Please have Lord Hadley lie down on the sofa, while I take my son up to his room and see him settled.” Ciara showed them
into the side parlor. “I’ll not be long.”

Gritting his teeth, Lucas nodded. His ribs ached abominably, but he tried to temper his limp.

“Lord James, there is brandy on the sideboard. Perhaps you would be so good as to pour the earl and yourself a glass.” After
a pause, she added, “I assure you, it’s straight from Wendell & Briggs, so is untainted by any additives.”

Jack did as he was asked and then drained his drink in one gulp.

“Stop fidgeting,” muttered Lucas. “She’s not coming back with a wizard’s wand or dragon’s tooth to cast some evil spell over
you.” He eased his shoulders back against the pillows. “As you see, she is a perfectly normal lady.”

Clasping his hands behind his back, Jack went to look at the art above the mantel. “An interesting choice,” he mused after
admiring the watercolor of the sea at sunset for some moments.

Lucas knew that his friend was extremely knowledgeable about art, though he kept it a secret from all but his closest comrades.

“Mr. Turner has a bold eye and daring imagination when it comes to light and color,” continued Jack. “He breaks a host of
traditional rules, so not many people appreciate his genius.”

“Lady Sheffield is not bound by convention,” replied Lucas. “She’s not afraid to make up her own mind about things.”

“Hmmph.” Jack turned slowly. “I’m worried about you, Lucas—”

“Hell, I’ve suffered far worse knocks falling from my horse in a drunken stupor,” he interrupted. “I’ll live.”

“This time, perhaps,” said his friend darkly. “But I fear—”

He stopped abruptly as Ciara reentered the room with a tray of medical supplies.

“Kindly hold this while I cut away the remains of Lord Hadley’s coat.” She handed Jack a basin of steaming water. “Pass on
my apologies to your valet, sir,” she murmured over the snip of the scissors. “And direct him to have Weston send me the bill
for refurbishing your wardrobe. Acquaintance with my son seems to be hazardous to the health of your clothing.”

“A small price to pay for the chance to resharpen my cricket skills.” Lucas winced. “Er, speaking of sharp…”

“I’m so sorry.” Looking flustered, she hurriedly cut through the last threads of the coat sleeve. “But this outer garment
must come off, so I may have a closer look at your ribs.” Her hand pressed gently just below his heart. “Take a deep breath,”
she said.

He slowly filled his lungs. Despite his discomfort, he bit back a smile. It was rather nice having her fuss over his injuries.
No lady had ever shown such concern over a few bumps and bruises.

“It does not appear that any bones are broken.” She took the basin from Jack. “Tilt your head back.”

“Why—”

The sponge feathered across his cheek. “Once this mud is cleaned away, I’ve a special arnica salve that will help ease the
swelling. And this draught of willowbark will dull the pain. I will make up several measures for you to take home. Drink it
every four hours for the next few days and it will keep you comfortable.”

“You appear quite an expert in medicine, Lady Sheffield,” said Jack as he watched her mix a powder into a glass of water.

“My interest in science has led me to study the basics…” She paused ever so slightly. “Of the healing arts, Lord James. Despite
what you have heard, this potion will not turn your friend into a frog.”

“I apologize if I have given you the wrong impression,” began his friend. “I did not mean to imply any insult.”

“No need to apologize, sir.” She turned in profile, and Lucas was struck by how very young and vulnerable she looked in the
slanting sunlight.

And how very beautiful.
Her hair glinted like spun gold, the wind-curled strands accentuating the finely chiseled shape of her features.

“I am aware of the rumors swirling around my name,” she went on. “You can hardly be blamed for assuming the worst.”

“Jack is smart enough not to form judgments based on hearsay,” said Lucas. “Isn’t that right, Jack?”

“I’m friends with you, aren’t I?” retorted Jack. “That should speak volumes about my loyalty, though not my sanity.”

Ciara ducked her head to hide a smile. “I’ve not yet thanked you for your help, sir. I’m not sure how I would have coped with
getting two muddied males home on my own.”

“I am sure you would have managed quite well, madam,” said Jack, his tone considerably thawed.

Lucas shifted slightly. “How is Peregrine, now that the first shock has passed? You are sure he was not clipped by a flying
hoof?”

“He’s just a little shaken, that is all.” She dabbed a bit of ointment on his scraped jaw. “However, he is quite concerned
about you. The only way I could prevent him from plaguing you with his presence was to promise a full report as soon as I
am finished ministering to your injuries.”

“I shall look in on the lad myself and assure him my pitching arm survived unscathed.” An involuntary shiver shot down to
his fingertips on recalling the sight of the huge stallion charging down on the small boy. “You are sure he is unhurt?”

“Boys his age are very resilient,” said Ciara. “I’m more worried about you. Now please sit still.”

Lucas rolled his eyes, only to find Jack was looking at him rather oddly.

“Seeing as you look to be in good hands, Lucas, would you have any objection to my leaving you here?” asked his friend. “I’m
already late for an appointment to be fitted with a new hunting gun by Mr. Purdey. And the old curmudgeon has a deucedly short
fuse when it comes to promptness.”

Lucas waved him on. “Don’t worry about me, Jack. I am perfectly fit enough to get home on my own.”

“Godspeed, then.” Jack bowed politely to Ciara. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Sheffield.” As he headed
for the door, he turned to add one last comment. “Do try to keep clear of any more mischief, Lucas. After all the years I’ve
spent keeping your carcass in one piece, I should hate to see all my efforts go for naught.”

As the door clicked shut, Ciara finished tending to the scrapes on Lucas’s face. “The two of you seem to have known each other
for some time.” Setting aside her reserve, she went to work undoing the rest of the shirt’s fastenings.

“Yes,” he answered with a crooked grin. “Jack was part of our pack of little devils at Eton. So we have been raising hell
together for ages.”

“I see.” She was trying very hard not to stare at the triangle of tanned skin and dusting of dark curls now exposed to view.
Science,
she reminded herself. This was simply a dispassionate exercise in… skeletal zoology. “Lift your arm, sir.”

He winced.

“Sorry,” she muttered.

“By the by, Jack approves of your choice in art,” said Lucas. “Not many people know it, but he is quite knowledgeable on the
subject.”

“I daresay that’s the only thing he approves of about me,” she replied, trying to work her hand under his sleeve. “Not that
I blame your friend for his concern.”

“Jack is no cabbagehead. He will change his mind when he gets to know you better.”

Ciara didn’t reply. Lord Hadley was not thinking straight—of course his friend would not get to know her better. The sham
engagement would end soon, severing all contact with the earl and his comrades. What man in his right mind would risk the
censure of Society to consort with the Wicked Widow?

It didn’t matter, she told herself. She was quite capable of surviving on her own.

Shifting awkwardly, Ciara tried to work the salve down to the spot that had borne the brunt of the blow. “Blast,” she finally
muttered. “You will have to remove your shirt, sir.”

His mouth twitched in silent amusement. “Is that an invitation, Lady Sheffield?”

“No, it’s an order.”

He tugged the linen over his head and let it float to the floor. “Do with me as you will.”

She began to massage the healing ointment over his ribs, trying to keep her eyes off the sculpted planes of his chest. As
her gaze dropped, she saw that his right side was already a mottled mass of purple bruises.
An ugly reminder that she had dragged an unwitting stranger into her troubles
.

A sound slipped from her throat. “Oh, Hadley, I fear you must hurt like the devil,” she whispered.

He grinned, making light of her worries. “You ladies take such things far too seriously. Trust me, I have suffered much worse
at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon. The former champion may be aging, but he still has fists of iron.”

“Men,”
she muttered, shaking her head. “Why you make it sound as if such a thing were fun is beyond me.”

“There is no rational explanation,” he agreed. “It must be some deep, dark, primitive urge that courses through our blood.”

Ciara was suddenly aware of a primal pulsing through her own veins. As her hands slid over his ribs, tracing every chiseled
contour of muscle and bone, every fiber of her being was intimately aware of
HIM
. A rampant masculinity, from the earthy scent of sweat and coarse curls of hair to the sun-roughened texture of his skin
and the bulging—

“Sorry,” she mumbled, feeling her nails dig into his flesh. Jerking back, she reached for the jar of ointment.

“Don’t you think that’s enough?” he joked. “I’m slippery as a greased pig.”

“It helps hold the bruising at bay—” she began, staring at the darkening welts spreading across his flesh. The brutal truth
was, she didn’t want to stop touching him. She wanted to slide her hands up to his shoulders and hold on for dear life. She
wished to share her fears and seek solace in his strength. Most of all, she yearned for him to kiss her into sweet oblivion.

Oh, the gossips were right—she was truly the Wicked Widow.

“The bruising is nothing to worry about, sweetheart. I’ll be a bit sore tomorrow, that’s all.”

“How can you say that! You…” Now that the first shock was over it suddenly hit her with a force that nearly took her breath
away—the earl had risked his life for her son. “You could have been killed!”

“But I wasn’t,” he replied lightly. “Though come to think of it, my demise would have saved you the trouble of crying off
from this engagement.”

A sob slipped from her lips. And another, giving voice to all her wordless longings.