Confessions of a Scoundrel

by Karen Hawkins

  His brow cleared. It was his pride, and nothing else. Relieved, he managed a grin.

  She didn’t seem to notice. She gave an absent wave of her hand and said, “I doubt it. But that’s neither here nor there. Before we begin…” she gestured vaguely, “this…there are some things I want to ask you.”

  This. Never had one word held so much promise. A thin shiver crawled over his skin and he realized how chilled he was. She was stalling, but that was fine. He’d let her stall if only for a short time…it would make her burn all the more hotly when they finally came together.

  He wiped a hand over his eyes. They stung as if on fire. A slow, heavy lethargy seemed to be creeping over him, fueled by the flashes of lust Verena was causing by her very nearness. “We can discuss whatever you want,” he said hoarsely, “but first I must remove these wet clothes.”

  Her eyes widened. “Remove your clothes? Now?”

  “When should I remove them? During our discussion? That would be very rude.”

  Her lips quivered and to his immense delight, she reached out and undid the top button of his waistcoat. “I rather thought we’d undress together—after we talked, of course.”

  Together. The two of them. Removing their clothes. God, but she was a brassy piece. He found that he rather liked that. Liked it and wondered how far it went. “What would you like to talk about before we remove our clothes?”

  “There are some questions I want to ask you.” Her violet gaze met his steadily. “Several.”

  He rubbed his throat, though it itched deep inside. “Fair enough. I have some questions I want to ask you, too. Who goes first?”

  She pursed her lips, an innocent gesture that nearly offset him. Her lips were the plump pink of a newly budded rose—sweet, curved, lush.

  “You may go first,” she said finally.

  Wonderful. Every fiber in his body yearned for her and she wanted to play Can You Guess. “May we at least sit?” He gestured toward the fireplace where one lone chair graced the room. He was certain he’d fall over if she continued to torment him so sweetly.

  She glanced at the chair dubiously. “I suppose so. Shall I call for another chair?”

  “Hell, no. I’ve had enough of Herberts for one day.” He caught her hand and pulled her toward the chair with him.

  She followed willingly enough, though she said in an exasperated voice, “Mr. St. John—Brandon, it will only take a moment to have another chair brought—”

  He sat, his hand still about her wrist, and pulled her down onto his lap. He settled her there, her legs over the arm of the chair, her bottom firmly settled over his lap, her head tucked beneath his chin. She fit perfectly, as if she’d been made for him.

  She sat for a stunned moment, then wiggled, trying to get up. He tightened his hold, though he let her squirm all she wished.

  After a moment, he murmured, “You really shouldn’t do that.”

  “Why not—” She stilled, her eyes widening as she felt his erection against her bottom, muffled by her skirts. Her mouth made a perfect “o.” “I’m sorry. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Normally I wouldn’t complain.” He rubbed her arm slowly, savoring the feel of her beneath his fingertips. Silky. Soft. Smooth. Everything a woman should be and more. “Are you certain you want to talk first?”

  She didn’t answer for a moment, but looked at him, her desire plain in her eyes.

  He captured her chin. “Verena,” he whispered.

  Her hand closed over his wrist. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t tempt me. I’m not as strong as I thought.”

  “Is it weak to want someone?”

  “No. But it is weak if I forget that I’m here because—” She clamped her lips together.

  Ah-ha. “Because?” He waited, but he could see that she was not going to answer. “Let me guess. You think it is weak if you forget that you are here for no other reason than I am the most virile man you’ve ever met.”

  Her smile broke through once more, sunshine on a dappled stream, lighting up the room and, in some strange way, his very heart.

  “You, sir, are insufferable. Whether you believe it or not, you are not the topic of every conversation.”

  “I may be insufferable, but you, madam, are a spoiled, willful woman.”

  “Spoiled? By whom?”

  “By your servants, and that blond Viking you lead around by the nose.” Just the thought of the man made Brandon growl. He didn’t like the way Lansdowne looked at Verena, as if he knew her better than everyone else in the room, as if they shared secrets.

  “Blond Viking?” She frowned for a moment, then suddenly chuckled. “You mean James!”

  “Whatever his name is.” Brand had a few names he used to refer to the cretin, but he didn’t think Verena would be amused.

  “I shall have to use that the next time I see him—Blond Viking. I rather like that.”

  Brandon scowled. “You are not to call him your blond anything.”

  “Why not? It would embarrass him to death and that is one of my few pleasures.”

  Brandon wished he’d bitten his own tongue off rather than give her a pet name for her latest amor. “Blast it to hell, I thought of the name and therefore it is mine to give to whomever I will. And I will not give it to you to use on that preening peacock that you like to have hanging about.”

  Verena looked at him with suddenly wide eyes, a dawning expression on her face. “Brandon…you are jealous.”

  “Of him? Don’t make me laugh.”

  Verena didn’t feel the least like laughing. She felt every other emotion—excitement, fear, uncertainty, and lust—especially lust.

  She eyed her captor narrowly, then shook her head. “You’re jealous,” she repeated loftily. “I recognize the signs.”

  His arm tightened and he slowly drew her against him until her chest was pressed to his. His face was only a few inches from hers, his blue eyes brilliant. “What is Lansdowne to you?”

  She wasn’t going to answer, but there was something sweetly possessive in the way Brandon’s arm tightened, in the expression in his blue eyes. “James is a relative.”

  “That’s a damnably vague answer.” He leaned his forehead against hers, his skin hot to the touch. “Don’t play games with me. I asked you an honest question; I expect an honest answer.”

  She bit her lip. He had a point. She wasn’t really sure why she was hiding the answer. Part of it came from years of conditioning—of never revealing more than absolutely necessary.

  It was the way the Lansdownes lived; the way they still did. Still, her instincts bade her to count the cost…what would happen if Brandon knew her relationship with James? She tried to think of the negative possibilities and could not think of a one. “James is my brother.”

  Brandon’s brows lifted. “Your brother?”

  “My one and only brother.”

  To her surprise, it seemed as if Brandon’s face relaxed, as if he was genuinely relieved. “Ah,” he said. “That explains a lot.” He eyed her consideringly. “You know, I hadn’t thought of it, but now…I do see some similarities.” He lifted a finger and traced one of her brows. “Do you have any sisters?”

  She placed her fingers over his lips. “It’s not fair if you get to ask all the questions. I have some of my own, you know. I believe it is my turn now.”

  His lips quirked. “Very well. What do you want to know?”

  She wanted to ask him all sorts of things—did he like blond hair? Did he enjoy shorter women, or taller ones? What was his favorite color? Did he like butter on his toast—oh a thousand things. It was a pity she was held to one question at a time.

  Verena toyed with his top button, feeling the heat radiate from his skin. She pushed away all the frivolous questions that were clamoring for answers and forced herself to focus on the problems at hand. “Why did you tell me about Humford? You said it as if you meant to shock me.”

  A flicker of regre
t deepened his blue eyes to black. “I threw the information at you to see your reaction; I thought you already knew of his death.”

  “I was horrified. How was Humford ki—”

  Brandon placed his fingers over her lips. “It’s my turn.”

  The devil. He was remarkably good at making one play one’s own games, a talent she used to relish, but now found irksome. She raised her brows and waited.

  His gaze darkened, the levity slipping away. “Verena, what do you know of Humford’s list? Have you found it?”

  Her heart contracted. Dear God, he knew about that, too. Did he also know about the indiscreet letters James was attempting to collect? The thought sent her heart pounding crazily in her chest and she pushed away, trying to get up.

  But he held her firm, a frown between his brows. “Answer, Verena. Do you know where it is?”

  She stopped struggling and gave him a considering look. Should she answer? Should she tell the truth? She knew how James would react in this situation—he wouldn’t volunteer the least tidbit.

  But then James still lived as Father had taught them, trusting no one, hiding who and what they were. Or he had until he’d fallen for a married woman with a careless pen and an eye for handsome young rakes.

  Verena tried to sort out all the facts as dispassionately as she could, considering that she was sitting in Brandon St. John’s lap, his deliciously warm body encircling hers. “I suppose it won’t hurt to tell you what I know, which isn’t a lot. I know that a list of some kind is missing. James and I, we’ve been looking for it, but it’s not here.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “We’ve looked everywhere.”

  His gaze met hers for the space of a second, then he sighed and rested his head against the high back of the chair, his arms loosening. A deep weariness seemed to cross over his face. “I was afraid of that. Verena, I must find that blasted list. I have to.”

  What did he mean by that? What could possibly be in the list that the whole world was after it? Even the people holding those damning letters of James’s were in on it now.

  Of course, Brandon’s admission was, in a way, reassuring. If he’d been the one to hold James’s letters, he wouldn’t have so quickly accepted her answer.

  Whoever held James’s letters believed that Humford’s list was still in Westforth House. “Brandon, why do you need the list? Why is it so important?”

  He looked at her from beneath his lashes for a long moment as if weighing his response. “Which question do you want answered first? Then it’s my turn again.” He lifted a finger and traced the line of her cheek to the corner of her mouth. “Only I think my next question is going to have to do with how you look without all those clothes on.”

  God, but he was delectable, especially like this, playful and seductive at the same time. He was mussed by the storm, thoroughly wet, his clothes hugging his body like a second skin, his blue gaze hot and possessive. Blast it, this is not fair.

  She had to swallow twice before she could answer. “I want an answer for both.”

  His eyes narrowed. After a moment, he gave a short nod. “Very well, but then you’ll owe. A lot.” He leaned forward to whisper softly, “And you will pay dearly.”

  She supposed a sedate, prim sort of woman might find sitting in the lap of a man who was not her husband or her fiancé, somewhat…indiscreet. Chancy. Risque, even.

  Verena found it exhilarating. She placed her hands to either side of his face. “If you answer those two questions, then in the morning I will answer every question you ask.”

  He raised his brows. “In the morning?”

  She pressed her lips to his forehead and then punctuated her words with soft, sensual kisses on his lips. “In. The. Morning.”

  Brandon had to fight the urge to bury his face in her neck, to taste her skin, and kiss her with all the passion that was building inside him. Good God, but she was a work of contradictions, bold and brazen yet soft and feminine.

  Most women he knew—even those as experienced as the never-missed Celeste—didn’t excite him the way Verena did. She promised, teased, tormented, all in the same breath.

  But she was also vibrantly real. She didn’t attempt to be some pure icon of womanhood, but was rich, and warm, and utterly in possession of herself and her body.

  It was intoxicating.

  He placed his hand over one of hers where it lay against his cheek, his fingers laced through hers. “Very well—since we’re sharing everything. I don’t know exactly what is in Humford’s list. Whatever it is, it has something to do with the Home Office.”

  “James guessed something like that.” She smiled then, her teeth white and even. “He’s very good at figuring things out.”

  “You’re fairly decent at it yourself.”

  “I try,” she said simply. “I’m surprised you’re going to such lengths to procure this list if the Home Office wants it. I wonder why…” She looked at him through her lashes and waited.

  The little devil was trying to worm extra information out of him. He rubbed his thumb the length of hers, sliding the pad of his thumb over her polished nail. “I want that blasted list because someone at the Home Office believes a friend of mine took it. If I don’t recover it, he could face dire consequences.”

  Her expression froze and something flickered deep in her eyes, but she said nothing.

  Something was happening here, he could tell. But what? Was she hiding something? He shifted so that he could see her face in the firelight. “Verena, this is important.”

  Her smile was strained. “I am beginning to realize that.”

  “Why have you been trying to find that damned list?”

  Her gaze turned secretive. “I have reasons—just as good as yours. Brandon…” She paused. “If your friend didn’t take this list, then surely he is in no true danger.”

  “There still would be a huge scandal. The strain on his father could be fatal.” He cupped her face firmly, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Do you understand, Verena? Whatever the cost, I must find that list.”

  She placed her hands on his wrists, her gaze meeting his levelly. “That is a problem. You see, Brandon, I must find it, too. We are at loggerheads once again.”

  Chapter 14

  Miss Mitford has been told that men like a biddable woman. So now all she does is bleat “Why yes, Mr. Fonternoy!” and “Why of course, Mr. Fonternoy!” As far as I can tell, all she’s got to show for such nonsense is a sore throat and the imminent loss of her virtue.

  The Mitfords’ maid, Lucy, to her brother, John, the Duke of Devonshire’s new head groom, on meeting him outside a butcher shop on Bake Street

  That was just her luck…for the first time in four years—four long years, Verena met a man who’d excited and thrilled her as much as Andrew and what happened? They were both on the trail of a ridiculous list…well, not too ridiculous considering that both Brandon’s friend and James stood to lose quite a lot without it.

  Life was never fair, but this seemed inordinately harsh—to flash such a delectable man before her and then ruthlessly steal him away. She felt as if she’d just found out her favorite scones would never again be served for tea.

  Brandon, however, didn’t seem the least upset. “Verena, we’ll look for the list together. And we’ll find it, too.”

  “And then what?” Verena brushed her fingers over Brandon’s cheek, marveling at the intoxicating feel of a man’s rough skin beneath her fingertips, the soft prickle of stubble under her palm.

  How long had it been since she’d felt that exact sensation? Four years? Almost five? Andrew. She closed her eyes and snuggled down until her forehead rested against Brandon’s cheek. A twinge of guilt flickered through her. Stop it, she told herself. Andrew would have never questioned her right to continue living her life after he’d died. He believed in living in the present, in tasting everything there was to taste, in reaching out and taking all that life had to give and reveling in each and every moment. />
  Somewhere, deep in her mind, she could almost hear his voice, encouraging her to take chances. To live, once again.

  “Verena?” Brandon’s warm voice slid about her.

  She shivered and wrapped her arms more tightly about him. “Brandon, no more questions.” She couldn’t stand it for another minute. She needed him, wanted him—feelings she’d thought were dead stirred to life and required immediate attention.

  Brandon’s mouth tightened as if he’d argue, but then his gaze met hers, hot and demanding. “We will finish this conversation in the morning.”

  “The very first thing,” she agreed, sliding her hands over his shoulders to his arms. It wasn’t enough. She placed her lips on his temple and traced a line to his cheek. Heat built within her, swirling through her and sending shivers down her spine.

  He lifted his mouth to hers, capturing her lips. He kissed her deeply, parting her lips with his tongue. She shivered beneath the onslaught, his tongue stroking the edge of hers. It was erotic, the mimicry he committed on her mouth. Her body softened, melted, heated. She moaned against him, opening her mouth wider, her arms going around his neck, holding him closer, pressing herself against him, moving restlessly in his lap, her thighs damp with desire.

  His hands spanned her back, cupped her bottom, held her closer. Every touch sent a burst of fire through her, tightening her breasts, shivering down her stomach, coming to rest between her thighs where a dull ache grew.

  She threaded her fingers through his thick, damp hair where it curled over his ears. God, but she wanted him. Desired him. Burned for him.

  He broke the kiss, his breathing harsh in the silence. “Verena, are you certain—” He couldn’t seem to form the rest of the sentence.

  But she knew he was giving her one last chance to regain control.

  But did she want control? She wanted him. And she knew that tonight would be a night she’d never forget. Verena caught his hand, lifting it to her lips. She loved his hands. Long and strongly formed, she was certain they were made for touching a woman, for bringing her to a world of pleasure. Locking his gaze with hers, she pressed a kiss between each finger, letting her tongue flick out and taste the delicate webbing between.