Always a Scoundrel

by Suzanne Enoch

  Cosgrove got there first and closed it before she could slip through. “‘Respect’?” he repeated, still smiling faintly, his blue eyes glittering. “Is that what you showed me when you allowed Bramwell between your legs? We’re to be married, my dear.”

  “Get away from me,” she rasped.

  He leaned closer. “Never,” he whispered. “The thing about hell, my dear, is that the devil hates being alone. You belong to me, just as my horse does. And Bramwell does now as well, I suppose.”

  “Go away.”

  “The only reason I won’t put you on your back at this moment is that I want us both to appreciate the wait. I know I do.”

  “Open this door, or I shall scream. You don’t own me yet, Lord Cosgrove.”

  With a slow breath, he lowered the latch and pulled open the door. “Was he gentle, Rose? Did he say your name? Did you come for him?”

  Giving a half shriek, Rose shoved past him and up the stairs. It was awful. This was awful. Every time she thought she’d raised some sort of defense against him, bested him even, he found another way to attack.

  Rushing into her bedchamber, she slammed the door closed and shoved a chair beneath the handle. Sobbing, Rose paced the floor and then sank down onto her knees. How could her parents ask her to marry that…that animal? She rubbed at her smarting cheek. He hadn’t hit her hard, but he could have. And knowing that made it even worse.

  A knock sounded on her door. “Rose?”

  “I’m ill, James,” she managed, sniffing. “Go to the ball without me.”

  “But Cosgrove wants you to join us.”

  Cosgrove could go hang himself. “I’m ill,” she repeated.

  “Very well, but he won’t be pleased.”

  When she didn’t answer, his footsteps retreated back to the stairs. Rose curled up on the floor. Even if she told her parents that Cosgrove had struck her, it wouldn’t change the circumstances that had caused them to agree to the marriage in the first place. As things were now, they would likely accuse her of provoking him with her complaining.

  As she lay there, the one face that gave her any sense of peace and hope was Bram’s. And now Cosgrove would be after him, as well. For a man who disliked entanglements, he was going to find himself in a very unpleasant situation. She might not yet be able to convince herself to flee and leave her family to their own troubles, but Bram Johns probably would have no trouble at all doing so to her.

  Chapter 11

  “Are you waiting for someone?” A warm hand curled around Bram’s arm. “Because I’ve sent Lord Ackley to fetch me sugared orange peels.” Lady Ackley moved closer, breathing into his ear. “And there are no orange peels being served tonight.”

  Bram stifled his sigh. “A brilliant maneuver, Miranda,” he returned, his gaze still on the doorway of the Hampton ballroom. Lord and Lady Abernathy and the tongue-wagging Lady Fishton with her vapid husband had already arrived. Where the devil was Rosamund?

  Miranda tugged on his arm. “You haven’t touched me in days, Bram. I long for you. But we must hurry. Ackley will come looking for me eventually.”

  The best thing about bedding Lady Ackley was that she lost the ability to speak once he removed her clothes. In fact, when they weren’t having sex, he found her irritating. And over the past days, that irritation had for some reason deepened into dislike.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you tonight, Miranda,” he said in a low voice.

  “Oh, does my devil not feel well?”

  That would be an easier way of getting rid of her than telling her that he simply wasn’t interested any longer in what she had to offer. “No, I don’t,” he agreed, slipping his arm from her grasp. “And it’s best if we’re not seen together for no reason.”

  “Oh, of course.” She released him, but leaned up to whisper at him again. “I’ve been wanting to inform you that my husband is leaving for Ackley Abbey on Monday, and he will be away for the next fortnight.” She giggled. “Can you imagine all of the fun we will have?”

  Across the floor Lester and Cosgrove strolled into the ballroom. “Excuse me, Miranda.”

  “But—”

  He didn’t listen to the tail end of her prattling; all his attention was on Cosgrove. To anyone else the marquis probably looked his usual aloof, cynical self, but Bram had known him, studied him, on and off for better than a decade. Kingston Gore was angry. And considering that Rosamund hadn’t appeared with either her parents or her brother, she was the likely cause of his ire. Good for her.

  Passing behind Cosgrove as the marquis began his own perusal of the crowded room, Bram slipped up beside Lester. “James, good evening.”

  The viscount jumped. “Bram. Where the devil did you come from?”

  “The shadows. It’s my way. Where’s your sister?”

  “Damnedest thing, that. She was all dressed up, ready to go, and then Cosgrove sets eyes on her and says she must put on a different gown—and the one she was wearing did make her look like a pinchy old governess, with those long sleeves and—”

  “And did she change clothes?” Bram interrupted, attempting to turn the tale back onto its path.

  “Well, she and King chatted in private for a minute, and then she went upstairs, but when I tried to fetch her, she said she’d taken ill and wouldn’t go out.”

  Taking a deep breath, Bram fought against an abrupt rise in his temper. “You left her alone with Cosgrove?”

  “They are engaged, really. And King’s got a sterling new pair for his coach.”

  “You idiot.”

  “I say, that’s unkind. I don’t—”

  “Never leave your sister alone with a man unless she asks you to do so,” Bram hissed. “No matter who the man is. Is that clear?”

  A hurt expression on his face, Lester nodded. “But it was Cosgrove,” he complained, as if that explained everything.

  “And Rosamund is your sister. You’ve done her enough of a damned disservice, James. You can at least stand by her while she’s still in your care.”

  As Bram finished his lecture, Lester gazed at him like the gullible, naive eighteen-year-old he was. For a moment Bram thought the pup might begin weeping. He took a breath. When had he become the one espousing propriety? With a half scowl he clapped the viscount on the shoulder.

  “You listen to your heart, James,” he continued more quietly. “There’s nothing wrong with that. But a man listens to his head, as well.”

  “Was it your heart or your head, then, that wagered Lord Deverill over whether you could drive through Brighton blindfolded?”

  “Ah. I don’t always listen to either one, though I do acknowledge that they’ve spoken. But I’m a poor example, James. As is Cosgrove.”

  “You’re daft, Bram,” the pup returned. “You won every wager you made at White’s last year. That ain’t a poor example. That’s bang up to the echo.”

  Very well, perhaps it was a rather spectacular feat, but that wasn’t the point. The middle of the Hampton soiree, however, wasn’t quite the place for a lecture on honorable behavior. Nor was he the ideal one to give it. Far from it. Aside from that, he wanted to know what Cosgrove had done to trouble Rosamund.

  He turned around to see Miranda glaring at him, and Cosgrove now looking full at him, as well. Given the poor showing he’d made at luncheon the other day, the expression on the marquis’s face, difficult as it generally was to read, should have been contempt or triumph. Instead, though, the anger that he’d first glimpsed on King’s face deepened.

  It was aimed at him, then. Perhaps on later reflection Cosgrove had realized that he’d erred in his treatment of Rosamund—though considering what Lester had just told him, that didn’t make much sense. The marquis was still attempting to antagonize and frighten her, and he’d apparently been successful at it.

  Bram supposed he could have turned around and made an escape, but little as he liked being embroiled in something that he hadn’t intended, he liked turning his back on someone he didn’t trust ev
en less. And he’d never trusted Cosgrove.

  “Bramwell,” the marquis drawled, as Bram stopped in front of him. He sent a glance at an approaching footman, who immediately found another direction to walk.

  “Cosgrove. You seem to be without your nearly-betrothed. A bit careless of you to misplace her, considering all the trouble you went through to catch her.”

  “You owe me an apology.”

  Bram raised an eyebrow. “Do I?”

  “Yes, you do. And I expect you to deliver it by sinking down on your knees here in front of everyone and begging for my forgiveness.”

  Hm. That didn’t sound good. And there he was, unarmed except for his wits and the knife in his boot. “It’s beginning to sound as though you and I aren’t friends any longer,” he mused, noting that the open area around them had grown, as though the fellow guests felt danger in the air.

  “It’s beginning to seem that we’re not,” Cosgrove agreed. “You’ve had her. When I made it quite clear that she belonged to me.”

  “I’ve had so many of them, King,” he replied with a slight smile that he didn’t feel. “To which one are you referring?”

  “If I’d wanted her publicly ruined, I would have done it by now,” Cosgrove grunted, anger flaring again in his angelic eyes. “And you’ve made it worse for her; if words aren’t effective, I’ll be forced to use other means.”

  “Or you could choose a different victim.”

  “No. If you wish this to stop with our friendship ending, I suggest again that you apologize to me. Now.”

  Cocking his head, Bram noted that both his older brother and the Duke of Levonzy were standing just beyond the outer rim of onlookers. Bloody wonderful. Out of all the things he’d done, associating with Cosgrove had probably angered his father the most, and for that reason alone he was loath to let the duke see a public break with the man. On the other hand, he’d shoot himself in the head before he would kneel in public to apologize for something. Particularly when he considered himself in the right—which, unusually enough, he was. Probably.

  “I’ve an offer for you,” he said aloud, keeping his voice pitched low. “Let her be. Let the entire family be, and I won’t take this beyond the end of our friendship. Pursue this game of yours any further, and I will see that you regret it.”

  “I’d pay to see you attempt to best me. Go to the devil.”

  Bram sketched a bow. “After you.” With that he turned on his heel and strolled into the crowd.

  “Bram,” his brother said, reaching for his shoulder.

  He ducked the embrace. “Excuse me, August. I’m in search of whiskey.”

  In truth, while a strong drink would be welcome, that wasn’t what he was thinking of. The idea seemed to burst fully formed from his skull the moment he’d learned that Rosamund might be in distress. And for the devil’s sake, he’d been breaking into houses while purportedly at parties for months. He’d already visited Davies House twice under cover of darkness, as it was. A third time would be a very simple matter.

  He lingered for a few minutes at the fringes of the room until the dancing began, and then he slipped out a side door of the ballroom and made his way outside through the gardens. This time he left his coach at the soiree and instead walked down the street and around the corner until he could hail a hack.

  A hack—another of his own rules broken. He detested the ill-sprung monstrosities with their lumpy seats and indecipherable scents, but tonight he barely gave it a first thought—much less a second. Was it obsession, the way Rosamund had come to consume his thoughts over the past weeks? Perhaps it was a sign that he was becoming feeble-minded, which wasn’t surprising considering the way he’d been living his life.

  But why her? Why not Miranda Ackley, who certainly had more experience in the bedchamber than Rosamund? Or Sarah Vischer, who could suck the yolk from an egg? Not decent, freckled, annoyingly stubborn Rosamund Davies. It made no sense at all.

  The hack stopped to let him out two streets away from Davies House, and he walked the rest of the way. Half the downstairs windows still glowed with candlelight, as did a handful of the rooms upstairs. Clearly he wouldn’t be going through the front door tonight.

  Irritated at his own driving need to see her and to touch her, Bram skirted the carriage drive and made his way along the base of the west-facing wall. Even three years after his return from the war on the Peninsula he kept fit with riding and boxing, but climbing walls to reach damsels in distress didn’t seem terribly dignified, or in keeping with his cynical view of life.

  That realization didn’t keep him from working his way up the drainpipe that ran past Rosamund’s window. As usual the glass stood open a few inches, and he was able to hook it with the toe of his boot and pull it toward him. Once the opening was wide enough, he swung across the open space and grabbed the windowsill with his gloved fingers.

  Shifting his grip, Bram dug his toes into the wall and hefted himself up. Then something smacked him across the face, and he nearly lost his grip. “Rosamund,” he rasped, scrambling to keep his precarious hold. “Stop bloody hitting me!”

  She gasped, and then her head emerged from the window to look down at him. “Bram? Oh, my goodness! I thought you might be the Black Cat, coming to burgle the house.”

  The Black Cat had already been to the house, though the only thing he’d stolen had been her virginity. “James said you’d taken ill,” he said, gazing up at her and aware of an odd thumping in his chest that had nothing to do with his hanging twenty feet above the ground. Next he would be quoting from Romeo and Juliet. “I came to see how you were.”

  “You might have called at the front door for that.”

  “If you don’t step back and let me in, the constabulary is going to come calling at your front door, wondering why there’s a very handsome dead man in your garden.”

  Rosamund moved back quickly. Feeling a bit unsettled—after all, he’d expected to find her cowering and witless—Bram hauled himself up over her windowsill and stepped down into her bedchamber.

  “Hello,” he said, brushing at the sleeve of his dark gray jacket.

  Dropping the cricket bat with which she’d struck him, Rosamund abruptly threw herself forward. Faced with a female shoving herself into his chest, her hands clutching into his coat, and her face buried hard into his shoulder, Bram did the only thing that felt correct; he closed his arms around her.

  “Rosamund, shh,” he breathed, lowering his face into her soft, ginger-colored hair.

  He wasn’t very practiced at being comforting; hell, he could count on one finger the number of times he’d offered comfort. She lifted her face and began kissing the underside of his jaw, featherlight and filling him with longing.

  “I’m attempting to be supportive and understanding,” he whispered, tilting his head, his eyes rolling back, as she continued nibbling at him. Good God.

  “Everyone left, and you came to see me,” she murmured, her voice still unsteady. Her fingers lifted to pull at the knot in his cravat.

  “This is not being comforting,” he tried, steeling every muscle in his body to keep from returning her caresses.

  “This is the comfort I want,” Rosamund returned, pulling his cravat free and dropping it to the floor.

  As her hands began tugging at the buttons of his waistcoat, Bram decided that he’d endured more than could be expected of any mortal man, and he lowered his head to take her mouth in a hard, hungry kiss. Part of him wondered whether this was her way of gaining revenge against Cosgrove again, this time for whatever he’d done to make her retreat to her bedchamber. At the sensation of her hands unfastening the buttons of his trousers, he ceased caring what her motivations might be.

  Bram pulled the pins from her hair, letting the ginger waves cascade down around his hands. “You are dressed a bit conservatively this evening,” he noted, reaching around her to loosen the top of her gown.

  “It was intentional.”

  He nearly said something about the
more skin she covered up, the more interested he was in exposing it, but he stopped himself just in time. Bram Johns only said such things when he was bent on seduction. This chit already had her hand down his—“Good God,” he muttered, aloud this time, shifting as her slender fingers closed around his cock. “Don’t pull it off; it’s headed where you want it to be.”

  “Apologies,” she whispered, removing her hand from his nether regions to shove his jacket and waistcoat onto the floor.

  Pulling the shirt over his head himself, he turned her around and swiftly went to work on the remainder of her buttons. She was enclosed more tightly than a mummy, and he wanted at her. Badly.

  As soon as he had her undone, he pulled down on her sleeves and twirled her around so that he could clamp his mouth over her left breast. Whatever her reasons for wanting him, at any moment she could come to her senses, and urgency pulled at him.

  Lifting her, he half dropped her backward onto her bed. He yanked her dress up over her hips, wetting his lips as she lifted her hips to assist him. Then he shoved down his trousers.

  “Your boots,” she rasped, gasping as he pulled her toward the edge of the bed.

  “Leave them.” With a growl he slid inside her, relishing the tight, hot sensation. Still standing beside the bed, he pumped his hips hard and fast, leaning forward to place his hands over her breasts. Her nipples pebbled beneath his palms, and he bent further to replace one hand with his mouth again.

  Moaning in time with his thrusts, she reached up to tangle her hands into his hair. “Bram,” she gasped, and then came, pulsing around him.

  Heat speared through him, turning his blood molten. Without any of his usual finesse he found his own release, deep inside her. Sweet St. Christopher. Whatever the devil she did to him, and much as he hated to admit it, he liked it. And he liked Rosamund Davies.

  He released her hips and twisted to lie back on the bed beside her, reaching over to fling a blanket over the two of them. When she rested her head on his shoulder, her hand curled over his chest, he had the oddest sensation of simply wanting time to stop.