Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3)

by Mia Marlowe

  She slanted a look at him. “The marble has been distressed to give the appearance of extreme age, but I’ll warrant it’s not more than two or three hundred years old. Don’t be dismayed. It’s an excellent copy. Quite subtle. No doubt it would fool most.”

  It had fooled him. “So you’re an expert in ancient art?”

  “Hardly, but I know one who is,” she said crisply, drawing her spine straight and lifting her chin. “My father is Dr. Montague Farnsworth, one of the world’s foremost Egyptologists, though his knowledge of Roman and Greek cultures is extensive as well. If I know something about those subjects, it is because I have the honor of assisting him in his work.”

  Devon had never heard of Dr. Farnsworth, but then, his interests didn’t lie in antiquities. He’d bought the statue to satisfy his mother’s whim to have a classically themed garden. The countess had hoped for something like Lady Hepplewhite’s collection of marble dryads.

  “A veritable Grecian urn sprung to life,” she’d claimed about Lady Hepplewhite’s garden statuary.

  Privately, Devon suspected his mother had never closely inspected an ancient urn. They were frequently peopled with figures engaged in extremely earthy endeavors, the sort the Countess of Devonwood would be certain to frown upon should any of them be reenacted in her garden.

  He massaged his right temple in a gesture he hoped appeared thoughtful. Devon tried to hide his pain as much as possible. “So help me understand. You’re a visiting antiquarian who’s invaded this garden for the sake of sketching its art?”

  “Nonsense. I’m merely drawing to pass the time. I’m here to meet Lord Devonwood,” she said. “But apparently his lordship has been larking about London all night and hasn’t found his bed yet.”

  After his night of gaming, Devon’s pockets were lined with banknotes and IOUs. So long as he played only with those who could well afford to make good on their vowels, he suffered no pangs of conscience over the advantage his special ability gave him.

  It was rarely such a benevolent gift. He reckoned the skull-splitter he experienced now more than paid for the privilege of using it.

  “Out all night, eh? Larking about London?” He arched a brow at her, trying not to wince at the additional pain that slight movement caused him. “You make Lord Devonwood sound a perfect scoundrel.”

  “My thoughts precisely,” she said with a conspiratorial grin.

  “But there’s probably good reason for an earl to be abroad all night,” he said, feeling he ought to defend himself, though for the life of him, he didn’t know why. This girl, though very attractive, was nothing to him. “You may regret your first impression of him.”

  “Regret is a waste of time,” she said with certainty. “First impressions are generally correct. If Lord Devonwood insists on behaving like a perfect scoundrel, it’s more than likely that’s what he is.”

  He longed to plant his lips on the dimple that marked her cheek. Then he’d show her just how a perfect scoundrel steals a real kiss. Merely thinking about it eased the ache in his head as blood rushed to another part of his body altogether.

  “Tell me. Why are you here to see Lord Devonwood?”

  “I’m not in the habit of discussing my personal business with strangers, but if you must know . . .” She chose that moment to flip to a fresh page in her sketchbook and accidently dropped her pencil.

  In hindsight, Devon would come to realize he never should have bent to retrieve it, but his mother had tried to raise a gentleman. If the countess failed in some areas of her son’s upbringing, she succeeded soundly in others. As soon as his fingers closed over the wood, the world around Devon faded to muted colors and a vision poured into him, more real than his next heartbeat.

  Her breath streamed across his lips, warming as a sip of brandy. She tipped her chin up to meet his gaze, her dark eyes wide.

  Devon didn’t wait for another invitation. His mouth covered hers, slanting to create a firm seal. Her uniquely feminine scent tickled his nostrils. Sweet and ripe, like a peach in the sun.

  He kept his eyes open as he kissed her, but hers fluttered closed. Dark lashes trembled in feathery crescents on her cheeks.

  She made a small noise into his mouth, a needy sound that went straight to his groin. He pulled her flush against his body, wishing her boned corset would allow him to feel her breasts yield to the solid expanse of his chest.

  The mere thought of those soft mounds roused him to aching hardness.

  Hunger roared inside him, every fiber of his body vibrant with straining life. He deepened the kiss, sweeping in to explore the hot, moist cavern of her mouth. He made rough love to her with his tongue, thrusting and teasing.

  She answered his invasion with her own, nipping and suckling his bottom lip, her kiss urgent and needy. She arched into him, pressing herself against his hardness.

  His hands found the buttons on her bodice . . .

  The pencil slipped from his fingers and the connection with his gift shattered. The vision evaporated like morning mist as his headache resumed its persistent throb. Miss Farnsworth’s face came into sharp focus.

  “Well, it appears neither of us can keep hold of this pencil,” she said as she bent to pluck it from the clipped grass.

  He reached for it as well, half-hoping for another few seconds of his vision, but he caught her hand instead. Her skin was warm and smooth and his headache suddenly lifted. The pain wasn’t masked or dulled. It was completely eradicated. He held her fingers for a fraction longer than necessary, reveling in the unexpected sensation of normalcy.

  “If you don’t mind . . .” She gently tugged her hand away and the relentless ache slammed back into him.

  The vision itself had been a welcome one for a change. He’d have liked to let the pleasant interlude spool out to its sweet conclusion.

  One thing was certain though. Sometime within the next twelve hours, the farthest edge of his foreknowledge, he and Miss Farnsworth were destined to become better acquainted.

  Much better acquainted.

  Lord, she was sweet. Soft and pliant and responsive. The vision left him crowding his trousers.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, cocking her head at him, a hint of panic in her taut features.

  He was saved from a reply when a voice called from behind him.

  “Oh, there you are, Devon.”

  When he turned, he was surprised to see his younger brother, Theodore, coming toward him. Always the sartorial peacock, Teddy was well turned out for mid-morning. His natty hat was rakishly askew and the boots that crunched along the garden path were spit-shined to a high gloss. An older gentleman in a tweed jacket trailed in his wake. Devon rose and strode forward to meet his brother, hand extended in welcome.

  “You weren’t due home for another week, Ted. If you’d sent a wire, I’d have met you at the pier.”

  “Plans change, brother. And I’ll confess to being too preoccupied to send word.”

  Theodore’s handsome face was thinner than it had been when Devon had seen him last, but his skin was so deeply tanned, his smile was blinding. Ted’s half-year tour of the major cities ringing the Mediterranean had obviously agreed with him. He pumped Devon’s hand while peering around him to smile at the woman. She had risen from the bench and approached them with graceful steps.

  “I say, old chap,” his brother said, “you’re not trying to steal my girl, are you?”

  “What? No.” His girl? Devon’s gut churned furiously. “What do you mean?”

  Teddy pushed past him, put his arm around Miss Farnsworth’s waist, and cinched her close. “Emmaline, I’d like you to meet my curmudgeon of a big brother, Lord High and Mighty, the Earl of Devonwood. Call him Devon, if you like. We all do.”

  Then Teddy turned to him with a triumphant grin. “All our lives, you’ve been first, brother. First to ride a pony, first to go away to school, first at everything. But I always intended to be first at something. Devon, may I present to you Miss Emmaline F
arnsworth?” The gaze Teddy cast toward her was filled with such adoration, it bordered on idolatry. “My fiancée.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Devon’s smile felt so brittle, he feared his face might crack.

  “Theodore, please,” Miss Farnsworth said, neatly extricating herself from his embrace. She hadn’t blushed a bit over the naked statue, but now her face flushed crimson over Teddy’s public declaration of affection.

  “Oh, all right, she hasn’t exactly said yes yet,” Teddy admitted with a laugh. “But she’s promised to consider my suit. It’s only a matter of time before she succumbs to the Nash charm, and she knows it.”

  Less than twelve hours to be precise, but she’ll be succumbing to the wrong Nash.

  Devon made a bow over Miss Farnsworth’s hand and tried to murmur an appropriate greeting. He must have managed something because over the roaring in his ears, he heard the low rumble of conversation continuing around him. All Devon could think was that as sure as his heart kept beating, his brother’s soon-to-be fiancée was going to be sighing in someone else’s arms before midnight.

  His arms.

  Teddy beamed at them both.

  Devon felt like excrement on the bottom of a pig-farmer’s boot. He was destined to kiss Miss Farnsworth thoroughly and there was no stopping it. Then he remembered that in his vision, the lady had definitely kissed him back.

  His teeth clenched. What sort of woman would toy with his brother’s affections by kissing someone else?

  “And this, of course, is Emmaline’s father, Dr. Montague Farnsworth,” his brother was saying.

  “Delighted, milord.” The man doffed his bowler, revealing a thinning head of iron-gray hair. He peered over the tops of his half-rimmed glasses and gave Devon’s hand the limp shake of an academician. “Forgive my lack of specific knowledge about the English system. I believe Devonwood is among the older peerages, is it not?”

  “My brother is the fifteenth earl of the name,” Teddy said. “So yes, it’s rather older than dirt.”

  “Though not so ancient as the Egyptian dynasties I have the honor to study, milord.”

  The man puffed himself up like a sparrow fluffing his feathers against a breeze. Now that Devon considered it, Dr. Farnsworth really did put him in mind of a drab little bird. His gaze flicked to Emmaline.

  How had this unremarkable fellow sired such a lovely creature?

  “Theodore Wainwright Nash,” a fluty feminine voice called from the French doors leading out to the garden. bedevil your brother without greeting your maman first?”

  Their mother might only have been a countess, but she waited with empress-like dignity for her younger son to hurry to her side and offer a kiss to her expertly rouged cheek. Then Lady Devonwood swanned across the garden, clearly taking Miss Farnsworth’s measure as she processed toward her.

  “Welcome, my dear.” As she kissed the air beside each of Emmaline’s cheeks, Miss Farnsworth’s face drained of all color. After the deep blush, she turned so pale, Devon wondered if the lady might swoon to the ground before her next breath, but she managed to stay upright. “So out of all the women in the world, this is the girl my son has chosen to be his bride.”

  The girl in question teased out a weak smile. She’d been so forthright, so quick to speak her mind with Devon before she knew who he was. The sudden change in her demeanor surprised him. It was as if she was a Drury Lane actress and had slipped into the role of shy ingénue.

  “My lady,” Miss Farnsworth murmured as she dropped a shallow curtsey.

  “Unassuming as she is lovely,” his mother said.

  Teddy tossed Emmaline a roguish wink. “Unfortunately, I have to point out that she has yet to choose me back.”

  “But of course, she will, dearest, if that’s what you want.” The countess patted Teddy’s cheek, then fixed Miss Farnsworth with a steely gaze. “What young lady in her right mind would refuse you?”

  Miss Farnsworth’s mouth twitched, but she refrained from saying anything.

  Probably a wise course, Devon decided. He was the only one who could ever disagree with his mother with any hope of prevailing.

  “I say, Maman, how did you hear about our . . . attachment, for want of a better word?” Theodore asked as he sidled up to Miss Farnsworth again, edging her father aside. “I only just now told Devon.”

  “You should know better than to ask that, Teddy. In a great house like this, the servants know everything. Baxter announced that you were home and informed me of your tendresse for the young lady in almost the same breath. I swear sometimes I think that man can read our minds.” Lady Devonwood clasped her hands together and directed her attention to the Farnsworths. “But where are my manners? I’m certain our guests must be exhausted from their journey. Baxter!”

  The ubiquitous butler appeared in the doorway almost immediately, a sure sign he’d been hovering just beyond the threshold. He didn’t show the least sign of chagrin at having been caught eavesdropping on the family he served, but it certainly put paid to the countess’s belief that he possessed the ability to divine anyone’s thoughts.

  Baxter kept informed the old-fashioned way. He was a world-class snoop. Devon usually didn’t mind it, but now he wondered if the butler had spied Miss Farnsworth and him in conversation earlier. Baxter formed his own opinions about people, but never expressed them unless asked.

  “Show Dr. Farnsworth and his charming daughter to the Blue Suite.” His mother bared her bright teeth at their guests. Devon wondered if only he realized it was a cat’s smile, meant to lull an unsuspecting mouse into complaisance before the kill. The countess might behave with outward decorum and welcome, but she was protective as a lioness when it came to her children. Devon was sure she was displeased over Teddy’s choice.

  “Devonwood House is at your disposal. Do let us know if there’s anything you require.” Lady Devonwood waggled her fingers at the Farnsworths in a gesture of dismissal. “If you’d be so kind as to follow Baxter . . .”

  Dr. Farnsworth lingered over the countess’s gloved hand as he expressed florid thanks for her hospitality. Finally, he allowed his daughter to take his arm and escort him toward the French doors. Miss Farnsworth tossed Teddy a quick smile over her shoulder before disappearing into the cool interior of the town house.

  “Thank you for being so decent about putting them up. They don’t know a soul in the city, and I wouldn’t hear of their going to Claridges when we’ve plenty of room here,” Theodore said once Emmaline and her father were out of earshot. “I know the engagement is a bit of a surprise, but you were gracious as always, Maman.”

  “You have presented us with a fait accompli, have you not?” their mother said. “What else could we do but welcome the girl and her father into our home?”

  “I can think of any number of things,” Devon said testily. “All right, Ted. What’s this betrothal business all about?”

  “Love, brother. It’s about love.”

  “Don’t be maudlin. The chit obviously has you dancing to her tune.”

  “Hmm, I wonder,” the countess said as she settled onto the bench Miss Farnsworth had lately vacated. She cast a gimlet eye toward the stone Dionysus, shuddered in distaste, and turned back to her sons. “Refusing to accept his suit is an odd way of leading a man about.”

  Devon suppressed the urge to swear. Since he was voicing opposition, their mother was free to indulge the fantasy that she wasn’t aghast at the thought of Theodore marrying a penniless nobody of a girl. Scholars like Dr. Farnsworth might be well respected, but they rarely had any money beyond parsimonious university stipends.

  “On the contrary, it’s the best way to snare a fellow. A “no” is like a red flag waved before a bull. Now Teddy is more determined than ever to have her.” He rounded on his brother. “What do you know of her really?”

  “That’s enough, Devon. Honestly, Theodore is old enough to make his own choices without our prying into his privacy,” their mother said sweetly. “Tell me, Teddy, h
ow did you two lovebirds meet?”

  Devon ground his teeth together. Evidently it wasn’t prying if the question was asked with a meek tone and a tilt of the head.

  “On shipboard, of course, between Alexandria and Rome, so I’ll admit the setting might have sped the romance along.” Theodore sat beside their mother and took one of her hands. “Emmaline’s father was giving a series of lectures, having lately come from a dig in the Valley of the Kings. Fascinating stuff. He found this little statue that—”

  “Stop trying to change the subject,” Devon said. The vision of kissing Miss Farnsworth was still so fresh in his mind, it was as if the event had already happened. “You’ve never made a secret of the fact that you want to marry up, Ted. Are you willing to overlook the fact that she’s not only a commoner, but an American as well?”

  “Whichever irks you the most holds the greatest attraction for me, brother,” Teddy said with a wicked grin. “A man’s opinions on such matters can change, can’t they? Are you listening to yourself? You sound like the prigs you used to make fun of. Besides, I’m not the earl here. It’s not as if I have to make a grand match for the good of the house and all. That’s your dubious honor.” Then Theodore’s smile faded and was replaced with a look of genuine concern. “What’s gotten into you?”

  Miss Farnsworth’s tongue in less than a dozen hours, Devon thought with vehemence, cramming his fists deep into his pockets.

  He’d given up trying to warn others of the events his visions showed him. No one wanted a Cassandra moping about, God knew. But if he used his authority as head of the household to forbid Ted’s relationship with this woman, it would only fuel his brother’s determination to pursue her.

  The countess patted Theodore’s hand. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but Devon is making sense. I know travel is said to be broadening, but have you considered that your sensibilities might have become rather too broad, dear?”

  His brother’s lips tightened into a hard line.