To Sin With A Scoundrel (5 page)

“Damn.”

Retrieving the little book he had knocked to the carpet, Lucas gave the marbled paper cover a dusting with his sleeve and
then turned to put it back in its place. As he did, its ribbon bookmark slipped and the pages fluttered open.

How interesting.
Perching a hip on the desktop, Lucas flipped through the rest of the chapter.

Naughty girl.

Not only did Lady Sheffield’s proficiency in arcane languages appear to include a rather racy dialect of Italian, but the
pictures showed a more intimate interest in anatomy than he would have expected in a prim bluestocking.

He turned the book upside down and stifled a laugh. On second thought, perhaps she was studying physics and the laws of gravity.
Such a position would require a great deal of leg strength to maintain. Having tried something of a similar nature on the
balcony of Lady Wilton’s bedchamber, he could vouch for the fact that—

“What the devil!” A shout, shrill with shock, interrupted his study.

Lucas looked up and smiled. “Free feel to call me Lucifer. No need to stand on formalities, seeing as we are in a private—and
some might say intimate—setting.”

The lady was still wearing the same hideous headcovering as when she had left the house. Its voluminous clouds of black gauze
made her look like a walking storm cloud.

“Get out!” Her thunderclap of fury did nothing to dispel the impression. “This instant.”

Strange, but for a heartbeat he had a prickling feeling that they had encountered each other before. He shook it off and replied,
“Not until you do me the courtesy of hearing me out.”

“How dare you accuse me of bad manners! You are hardly entitled to lecture anyone on proper behavior.”

Lucas tapped his forefinger to the erotic etching. “Neither are you.”

Her shoulders stiffened, and her head came up a fraction. She was taller than he had imagined, and for some odd reason he
had the impression that beneath the crow-black coverings, the arch of her neck was graceful as that of a swan’s.

“Get out,” she repeated. “I warn you, I don’t mean to tolerate this invasion of my privacy.”

Lucas crossed his legs and waggled a boot. “What do you intend to do—pull out a pistol and shoot me? I had heard that poison
was your preferred weapon.”

“If I gave you a choice, I should imagine you would choose a blade. Word has it you fancy yourself quite a swordsman.”

He laughed. “Touché, Lady Sheffield.” Pressing a hand to his chest, he exaggerated a grimace. “I appear to be hoisted on my
own petard.”

The gauzy veil did little to blunt her daggered look. He could feel a thousand little points of steel prick into his flesh.

“Your petard will not be hoisting itself—much less anything else—in this house,” she retorted.

The widow had a rapier wit, he gave her that. Which she wielded with surprising dexterity. Lucas rose and smoothed the wrinkles
from his trousers. Rather than aggravate him, the idea of matching thrusts and parries with a skilled opponent intrigued him.
Demure young ladies bored him to perdition.

“It’s rather warm in here,” he drawled. “If we are to engage in a verbal duel, you might be more comfortable taking off your
cloak and bonnet. As I said, I am not going anywhere until I have my say.”

“You are not used to being told no, are you?”

“No.”

There was a pause, and a flutter of black wool, as she moved to her worktable and spooned out a measure of white powder. Steam
shot up as she emptied it into the cauldron.

“Come now,” he murmured. “It’s only sporting that I be allowed to see the face of my opponent.” Deliberately toying with the
top button of his coat, Lucas added, “It strips the combat down to the bare essentials, so to speak, when you look at each
other, eye to eye.”

She edged back. “I’m not interested in playing your game.”

“Are you sure?”

Her hands betrayed a tiny tremor. “Q-quite sure.”

“As a gentleman, I cannot force you to listen,” he said softly. “But I’m getting rather desperate, and desperate men cannot
be counted on to mind the rules.”

He heard her breath catch in her throat. “I cannot imagine how your concerns could have anything to do with me.” She stirred
the bubbling liquid. “We do not move in the same circles.”

“And yet our paths have crossed.” He stepped around a stack of brass canisters. “Aren’t you the least bit curious as to why?”

“I am curious about a great many things, Lord Hadley. You are not one of them.”

Though Lucas admitted he deserved some measure of scorn, her tone pricked his pride. He was not about to let a reclusive widow
have the last word. “Before you presume to pass judgment, why not hear me out?”

“And if I do?”

“Then you have my promise that I will not trespass on your hospitality a moment longer.”

The widow hesitated, then abruptly unknotted the strings of her bonnet and set it atop the stack of books. “Very well,” she
said, turning to face him.

Surprise rendered him momentarily speechless.

His image of her had been completely wrong. Save for the thinned lips.

But that was only because at the moment they were compressed in a tight line. In their natural state they were full and finely
shaped—he was enough of a connoisseur of feminine beauty to recognize their exquisite form, even when distorted by anger.

Lucas was transfixed by a sudden, thrumming awareness of every fine-boned, graceful detail of her face. His pulse quickened,
and his heart thudded against his ribs.

Lud, how was it he had not heard the lady was an absolute stunner?

He stared for an instant longer before slowly releasing his pent-up breath and raising his eyes to meet hers.

Disapproval had dulled their seafoam green color to a stormy gray. Beneath the surface swirled a deeper emotion.
Distrust.
Darkened with a tinge of fear.

Lady Sheffield appeared wary of men. He wondered why.

But before he had time to give the matter further thought, she snapped, “Do go on, sir. I haven’t got all day. You might not
have anything better to do with your time, but I do.”

Arched brows accentuated her displeasure. Like the curls that had come loose from her hairpins, they were a subtle shade of
russet gold, sparked with glints of copper. The fiery highlights reflected her smoldering impatience. With a toss of her head,
she shrugged off her cloak.

Forcing his gaze away from her willowy body, Lucas turned to retrieve his portfolio of papers.
Shake off this strange bewitchment,
he chided himself. He had seen far too many naked—and willing—women to feel such a visceral reaction to a widow dressed like
a nun.

“It might be better if you had a look at these before I explain myself.”

Ciara took her time in untying the flap. “Is this some sort of joke, Lord Hadley? Some drunken bet scrawled in the betting
books for all of White’s to ogle over? Let me guess the gist of it—five hundred pounds says Hadley cannot penetrate the widowed
witch’s lair.”

A last little yank snapped the strings. “You may enjoy all the lurid attention, and the notoriety of having your name become
a byword for bad behavior. But I abhor being the subject of idle gossip, of sordid speculation.”

His eyes narrowed slightly at her words. In the wink of scudding sunlight, Ciara could not be certain of what she saw. Surely
it must have been anger, and not regret. A wastrel like Hadley was not the sort of man to repent his sins.

Still, the urgency of his reply took her by surprise. “As you say, my exploits are well known. I don’t have to engage in any
such prank to prove myself.”

“Then I ask again—what do you want of me? I have nothing a rake would desire.” She knew that was true. Her late husband had
made it clear that she was much too thin to stir a man’s lust. And her hair wasn’t the bright guinea gold coveted by most
gentleman but was marred by Hibernian highlights. Sheffield had mocked the reddish tint, calling it the stain of her Irish
mother.

She closed her eyes for an instant, hearing his drunken shouts cursing the king, the country, the Little Corsican—anyone but
himself—for the empty coffers that forced him to marry for money. She had been no happier about the arrangement than he was.
A lofty title was paltry recompense for the abuse she had suffered.

God rot his cruel bones.
The man had been a bully and a lout. She was not at all sorry he was dead.

When she lifted her lashes, she saw that the earl had come closer. Close enough for her to breathe in the masculine scent
of sandalwood and spiced tobacco. Close enough for her to feel the heat of his body caress her cheek.

“On the contrary, Lady Sheffield. You have
exactly
what I want.”

His silky murmur sent a shiver skating down her spine. Reaching her belly, it did a slow, curling somersault as his sapphire
gaze darkened to a deeper brilliance. What madness had come over her? It was utterly unreasonable to respond in such a physical
way to a rogue.

Don’t.
Oh, don’t stare at his sin-black hair, curling around the chiseled line of his jaw. Don’t wonder how the glossy strands would
feel twined around her fingers.

Ciara smoothed her hands over her gown, unconsciously tightening the silk around her hips.

His eyes followed the gesture, and he smiled. “Not your fine bosom, or your long legs or your shapely derriere, but your learned
mind.”

She fell back a step, mortified to find herself stammering like a schoolgirl. “I… my… you… are speaking outrageous nonsense,
sir. You know absolutely nothing about my person.”

“No? I’m rather expert at assessing a lady’s charms, even when they are buried in the depths of a dowdy gown. One can tell
much from the curve of a neck, or the lithe grace—”

“That’s enough,” she interrupted, trying to quell the flutter in her belly.

“Aren’t you curious to hear more?” he asked softly. “Most females like to hear a man appreciate their beauty.”

No—I’m not curious!
But for some perverse reason, the words remained stuck in her throat.

“As I was saying, you’ve a lovely, lithe grace to your movements. Your hips sway just enough to provoke… improper thoughts.
As for your bosom…”

Her hand flew to her chest.

“Your breasts look to have the lush roundness of perfectly ripe peaches,” he went on slowly, as if savoring the sweetness
of each syllable. “Soft, yielding—”

“Please get to the point of this visit, Lord Hadley,” said Ciara, finally regaining control of her voice. “My patience is
wearing thin.”

“A pity it is not taking that ill-fitting nun’s collar along with it.”

“Sir!”

The earl took another step closer. “Is it true what they say?”

To her dismay, she felt a rush of heat color her face.

“About your intellect,” he added.

Ciara dragged her gaze away from his mouth, supremely sensuous in its curl of silent laughter. “Enough of your insolent arrogance,
sir,” she whispered, shoving the package back at his chest. “Whatever your game, it has gone too far.”

The earl touched her hand. “Forgive my teasing. It’s hard to resist the temptation when anger brings such a lovely glow to
your features.”

“And you are not a man much given to resisting temptation, are you?”

For an instant, the look of unholy amusement seemed to fade from his features.

“Well, I, too, am sorely tempted to give in to an urge,” she added. “The one prompting me to consign you and your cursed papers
to the flames of hell.”

“You may wish a quick glance at that manuscript before tossing it in the fire.” His nonchalance was back. “I’m told it is
an ancient scientific treatise, as yet unknown in the West. For a serious scholar, its importance would be incalculable. But
that is for you to judge.”

Intrigued in spite of herself, Ciara took a peek at the first page. It did indeed appear to be very old, the ink faded to
a spidery tracing. However, considering the source, it was probably a hoax. “Why bring it to me?” she demanded.

“Because my uncle does not wish to trust it to just anyone. He believes you are the most qualified to examine its contents
and make an accurate translation. Some of it is written in a complex code, which he seems to think won’t pose a problem to
a lady of your intellect.”

She snorted in disbelief. His explanation only confirmed her suspicions. “What fustian! I am quite certain I have never met
any relative of yours in my life.”

“No, but Sir Henry Phelps is very well acquainted with your writings and holds you in the highest esteem.”

Now,
that
was an unexpected discovery. Ciara would never have guessed that the bookish baronet shared anything in common with the rakish
earl. She had read some of the elder gentleman’s essays and found them to be articulate and insightful.

The only ink Hadley created was page after page of prurient gossip in the scandal sheets.

“If what you say is true, why didn’t he come himself?” she asked.

The earl took a moment to answer. “These days, he finds it difficult to manage the short journey from his bedchamber to his
study. But it is pride as much as his infirmities that prevent him from leaving his townhouse. He does not like people to
see he is confined to a Bath chair.”