How to Catch a Wicked Viscount

by Bennett, Amy Rose

  Nate nodded. There was sense in what Gabriel had just said. Most duelists slipped the noose even in cases where one party had been killed. But there would still be a court case. Nate could understand why Gabriel wanted to avoid all that. “What will you do?”

  Gabriel dropped his cheroot and ground it into the rain damp lawn with the toe of his shoe. “I think a trip to the Continent is well overdue,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll rent a villa on Lake Geneva like Byron and write poetry or paint. Drink copious amounts of claret or become addicted to an entirely healthy pursuit like basking in the sunshine.” He shrugged. “You know me. It’s always too much or too little.”

  Nate gripped his shoulder. “I do, and I understand completely. Whatever you do, make sure you take a trunkful of prophylactic sheaths with you.”

  Gabriel’s teeth flashed white in the darkness. “Don’t worry, I will. I might even write a letter or two.”

  “God, I wouldn’t bother. You know I won’t read them.”

  Gabriel laughed and pulled him in for a brief hug. “I’ll be back. When things have settled down.”

  “Safe travels, my friend. And for my peace of mind, do try to stay out of trouble.”

  “I’ll try but I can’t promise anything. No matter what I do, trouble always has a knack for finding me.”

  Nate watched Gabriel disappear into the inky shadows at the side of the house. He trusted his friend would be all right. He’d been through much darker times, battled all sorts of demons in the past, and he’d always overcome them.

  Gabriel was strong.

  Much stronger than he was.

  He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. He was tired. So tired.

  “Lord Malverne?”

  “Sophie.” Nate turned and frowned into the darkness. There she stood, only a few yards away, a pale slender wraith with a cloud of night black hair silhouetted against the brightness spilling from the doors and windows of Astley House. She walks in beauty like the night . . .

  Nate swallowed, and when he spoke, his tone was harsher than he intended. “What are you doing here? It’s been raining. Your silk slippers will get wet. And your gown.”

  “I don’t mind. I wanted to make sure you—I mean things—were all right.”

  “Yes. Yes they are.”

  Both propriety and common sense dictated he and Sophie should go back inside. That they shouldn’t be out here in a wet garden all alone. But Nate’s feet refused to move. His tongue refused to say the words that would turn her away.

  Words that would save her from him.

  She moved closer, the gravel on the path barely crunching beneath her careful, light footfalls. “Lord Langdale—”

  “He’s gone. He’ll be fine. He always is.” Four yards . . .

  “Thanks to you. You were very brave.”

  “I’m no hero, Sophie. Just a man helping out his friend.” Two yards . . .

  “Yet not everyone would.”

  Nate blew out a sigh. “I suppose not.”

  She was at his side now. Much too close. He could feel the warmth of her. It beckoned to him. He wanted to reach out, gather her close, bury his face in her hair. Savor her sweetness . . . devour her . . .

  He clenched his fists.

  “We need to go back inside.” There, he’d said it. The right thing. He could push down all of his base impulses. Ignore the tightening of his loins. The temptation heating his blood. The ravenous hunger . . . It wasn’t so hard.

  But then she brushed against him, and her naked fingers—she’d discarded her white silk gloves—threaded through his.

  Her voice was the merest whisper, barely discernible above the patter of raindrops from the oak tree, the sound of music and voices emanating from the house. Yet he couldn’t mistake the blatant invitation, the insistent plea in her tone. “Lord Malverne . . . Nate.”

  In that moment, he knew he was lost. “Oh, hell.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Oh, hell.” Nate groaned the curse as he slid a large hand to the small of her back and pulled her hard against his lean, muscular body. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “I, for one, can’t think of a reason why we shouldn’t,” Sophie murmured, boldly sliding her hands beneath the smooth velvet lapels of his evening jacket. When he’d followed Lord Langdale out here, she’d slipped outside, too, hiding in the shadows, keeping her distance until the earl left.

  What she was doing, it was wicked. It was unwise. But she was so tired of being teased, so tired of waiting for Nate to put his scruples aside, for him to take what she wanted to give.

  She wasn’t quite sure how far either of them was willing to go, but they could at least begin with a kiss.

  It was so dark in this far corner of the garden, Sophie could barely discern Nate’s features. The sharp lines and angles of his cheekbones, his determined chin and jaw, the fine cut of his chiseled mouth, the glimmer of his dark, fathomless brown eyes, all were hidden in the shadows. But she could feel so much. The furnace-like heat of his body. The movement of sleek, hard muscle as he raised a hand to ever so gently push a tendril of her hair behind her ear. His potent male scent and the faint touch of his breath. The heavy thud of his heart . . .

  Arousal shivered over her skin and the want, the ache, deep inside her grew more insistent. It was a pulse that seemed to have a rhythm all of its own, separate from that of her own madly beating heart.

  She parted her lips. Leaned closer. Nate hadn’t pushed her away, and she sensed the shift in power, slipping away from him and into her hands. The feeling was heady, like she’d just swallowed a shot of strong brandy. It gave her courage. It made her brazen. Still, a voice inside her head cautioned, Keep the tone light. Don’t let him see how you really feel . . .

  Her tongue darted over her lips, then she whispered so very close to his mouth, “I know you’ve taught me how to flirt, but I think it’s about time I learned how to kiss, Lord Malverne. Properly. If I am to catch a wicked rake—”

  He lost control. With a groan, he caught her face between his hands and kissed her.

  His mouth pressed against hers, his lips firm yet soft as they slid and brushed. Coaxed and teased. It was a gentle wooing, yet something powerful, something hungry, something wild, unfurled inside her.

  Plunging her fingers into his thick silky hair, she pushed herself closer, mimicking the movement of his lips, wanting to learn what would please him, what would make him groan again. To make him want her as much as she wanted him.

  When his hot tongue swept against the seam of her lips, she gasped and drew back.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve shocked you,” Nate murmured against her lips, his breath teasing her just as much as his touch. “We can stop the lesson here.”

  “No . . . I just wasn’t expecting . . . I’ve read of such things . . .” Sophie feathered her fingers over his jaw; it was tight with tension. If they stopped now, she’d die. “I want you to do it again. Taste me with your tongue.”

  “Christ, I’m going to burn in hell for this.”

  Again, Nate captured her face and claimed her mouth. This time when his tongue pressed against her lips, she opened for him, letting him slide inside to taste her, just as she’d demanded.

  The sensation, the whole experience of being invaded so intimately, was so, so wicked. And utterly addictive. Nate’s tongue as it explored her mouth was hot and wet; a velvet rasp, both rough and smooth. Commanding yet gentle.

  Sophie loved everything about it.

  Nate pulled back, drawing a breath, and Sophie chased him for more. She glanced a kiss across his jaw, the corner of his mouth. Her fingers curled around his lapels. “Don’t stop.”

  “I won’t.”

  He leaned back, lounging against the wet, ivy-covered wall and drew her into the space between his muscular thighs. His arms circled her, lashi
ng her body to his again as he plundered her mouth like a starving man.

  Sophie kissed him back with equal ardor and desperation, her tongue tangling with his. Even through the layers of her clothes, and his, she could feel the rigid length of his manhood pushing against her belly. She should be shocked but she wasn’t. No, not at all.

  The strange pulse of desire between her thighs became even stronger and she shamelessly rubbed herself against Nate like a cat in heat. Nate’s mouth grazed along her jaw, then down her neck, and the memory of him ravaging her with hot kisses when he was naked in her bed made her moan. She grasped one of his wrists and placed his hand on her breast.

  “Sophie. Sweet Sophie.” Nate seized her mouth again and responded to her unspoken, blatant demand, his fingers gently kneading her breast, teasing her tight, aching nipple.

  It wasn’t enough. She wanted more. She wanted his mouth there. His lips suckling, his tongue flicking—

  It started to rain. Heavily.

  “Damn.” Nate shrugged out of his jacket and cast it over her head. “Come.” Catching her hand, he led the way as they dashed up the gravel path, back to the terrace. Breathless from kissing, the cold shock of the rain, and laughter, they took shelter in the shadows, away from the windows and doors.

  “Do you think anyone saw us?” Sophie whispered as she handed Nate’s jacket back.

  He shrugged it on. “I’m not sure. I don’t think so . . .” He paused and cupped her cheek ever so gently. “Sophie . . .” Beneath his rain-damp hair, his brow furrowed and his wide chest expanded as he drew a deep breath.

  He was about to tell her he shouldn’t have kissed her. Taken such liberties.

  He was afraid he’d compromised her again. And that there might be consequences.

  The knowledge stung but what had she expected? Don’t let him see how you really feel. Don’t scare him away.

  Sophie put a finger to his lips. “You are a very good teacher, Lord Malverne. And everything we just did, I wanted. But the lesson is over. I don’t want you to worry or start thinking you’ve taken advantage of me. We both know that’s not true. And I also want you to know I don’t expect anything else.”

  He clasped her hand and kissed her fingers. And nodded.

  That simple action nearly broke her heart. Somehow she kept her smile in place.

  “I think it’s best we go home,” he said. “I know it’s cold out here, but if you can bear it for just a minute longer, I’ll fetch your redingote and order the carriage. Then I’ll escort you around the side of the house to the front.”

  “What will you tell your aunt and Charlie?”

  He grimaced. “I’m hoping they’ll believe you came looking for me but that I’d already returned to the house. And because you’ve been caught in the rain, we need to go home.” His shoulder lifted in a shrug. “It’s the best I can do.”

  She crossed her arms, grateful it was so dark in the shadows; he wouldn’t be able to see how brittle her smile had become. “I concur.”

  Nate rubbed her chill bare arms. “I’d leave you my coat but then . . . Oh, sod it.” He slid it off again and draped it around her shoulders. “After what happened earlier in the ballroom, I don’t care what anyone thinks.”

  “Thank you.”

  He touched her cheek, a brief caress. And then he was gone.

  Sophie sighed and leaned back against the whitewashed wall of the house, clasping Nate’s jacket about herself, savoring the warmth and his scent. It was still raining and a wind had risen. A sudden squall blasted her with icy drops and she shivered.

  Closing her eyes, she touched her fingers to her lips; they felt tender and slightly swollen. Kiss bruised. She would never forget this night and Nate’s ardent kisses and caresses. He might not care for her, but he desired her. And she never, ever thought a man like Nathaniel Hastings—a viscount and renowned rakehell—would ever want someone like her, Miss Sophie Brightwell, a shy, quiet girl from the country.

  Whatever happened in the future, she wouldn’t regret a single thing.

  CHAPTER 15

  What a to-do at London’s most fashionable tea shop!

  Tonnish misses trade vicious barbs while patrons take tea. Read on to discover what the notorious Miss S. B.—one of the Disreputable Debutantes thrown out of a certain “ladies’ academy” three years ago—said to a less than perfectly poised Lady P. . . .

  The Beau Monde Mirror: The Society Page

  Hastings House, Berkeley Square, Mayfair

  April 23, 1818

  I’m sorry I’m such miserable company,” Charlie croaked, wiping her bright red nose with a kerchief before adjusting her shawl about her flannel night rail. “Especially when you need cheering up.”

  “You’re not miserable at all.” Sophie joined her friend and a snoozing Peridot on the window seat in Charlie’s sitting room. Although disappointment weighed heavily upon her heart, she managed a smile as she stroked the kitten’s soft fur. “And I’ll be all right. I think rejections are fairly commonplace in the business of publishing. It just means I’ll need to submit my book elsewhere.”

  During breakfast, the correspondence had arrived, and to Sophie’s dismay there’d been a sizable package among all the other letters; Mr. A. K. Newman from Minerva Press had returned her manuscript along with a very brief but polite letter of rejection. It appeared The Diary of a Determined Young Country Miss was not quite right for the publishing house at this particular point in time.

  And she would indeed try elsewhere. If she didn’t find a suitable match by Season’s end, her family would definitely need the extra income. The prospect of having to marry Lord Buxton loomed like an ever-present ominous cloud on the horizon of her life.

  Perhaps detecting her despondency, Charlie gave her arm a quick squeeze. “I’m certain you’ll find someone who’ll be mad for your book. Just you wait and see.” She twitched back the blond lace curtains from the casement window and examined the pale blue sky and scudding gray clouds. “At least the weather isn’t so miserable today. It might be a bit windy but the rain has stopped at last.”

  The rain that had begun the night of the Astleys’ ball had continued on and off for the last four days. Even though Sophie had feared she might catch a chill after being caught in the downpour with Nate, it was poor Charlie who’d come down with a terrible head cold the very next day.

  “Would you like me to order a nice hot bath for you?” Sophie stroked her friend’s undressed hair. The bright chestnut curls cascaded across her shoulders and down her back. “Or more hot chocolate?”

  Charlie coughed into her kerchief and shook her head. “No to the hot chocolate. But perhaps a pot of tea and a bath. That would be lovely.”

  “I’ll ring for Molly.”

  After she’d issued her requests to Charlie’s lady’s maid, Sophie took a seat at a small table beside the fire with her writing slope and began to pen a new query letter to another publisher, a certain Mr. John Murray. The task would help to occupy her mind and keep her from dwelling on Minerva Press’s rejection.

  And Nate’s.

  Ever since the ball at Astley House, Nate had been avoiding her, she was sure of it. The morning following the ball, when Charlie had first announced she was beginning to get sick, Lord Westhampton informed them over breakfast that his son had departed for Suffolk of all places, with his friend the Duke of Exmoor, to investigate the latest in prize horseflesh for the duke’s stables.

  It stung that Nate hadn’t said goodbye. And worse still, he hadn’t let anyone know when he would be back.

  Sophie supposed she only had herself to blame if Nate had decided to keep his distance. She’d taken things too far, too fast. She had made him feel guilty and scared him away. It seemed he didn’t mind flirting with her, but tutoring her in the art of kissing was another thing entirely.

  Yet, Nate was the one who’d
joked about “devouring” her on two occasions. He was the one who’d nearly kissed her in Charlie’s sitting room, but she had stopped it when she heard a noise in the hall.

  It was too confusing, too frustrating, and thinking about it all—on top of the rejection letter—was putting her in a bad mood. Which was a shame considering the day was going to be fine for once.

  Inspiration struck Sophie like the sudden wash of sunlight that touched Charlie’s bent head, burnishing her curls to a bright coppery gold. She wouldn’t be defeated. Yes, she’d stop by Mr. Murray’s office on Albemarle Street this very morning and submit her story straightaway. There was no chance whatsoever that it would get published if it simply sat around here, its brown paper packaging gathering dust.

  And as Albemarle Street was only a short walk from here, she’d then visit Olivia and find out if she’d had any luck in the husband hunting stakes. And, of course, she’d fill her friend in on all the latest gossip—although she would have to leave out the part about her first kiss. If Charlie found out . . .

  Sophie shuddered. If Charlie found out, she’d tell her father, then Nate would be obliged to marry her. And he clearly didn’t want to. Caring for him the way she did, her heart would be in danger of being irrevocably broken if she were to end up married to a man who didn’t reciprocate her love. It would be the most intolerable of tortures.

  Yes, she was warming to the idea of setting out on a purposeful walk with each passing minute. She walked two miles or more every day when she was home at Nettlefield—weather permitting—so it was no wonder she was beginning to feel restless. It was a shame Charlie was too unwell to come, but on the way back, she’d stop by Gunter’s and pick up something delicious for her to eat. Some of her favorite toffees perhaps.

  Her letter to Mr. Murray complete, Sophie announced her intentions to Charlie, then changed into one of her new walking gowns, a deep rose red affair with smart black frogging. Within fifteen minutes she was venturing forth onto London’s busy streets, one of the Hastingses’ young housemaids sullenly trailing behind her; Sophie didn’t think she appreciated the wind tearing at her bonnet and skirts while she carried Sophie’s manuscript.