Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3)

by Mia Marlowe

  Of course, the fact that Northrop gambled to excess and overspent on his high-flying mistress might have been his main trouble, but there was no denying it was deucedly expensive to keep up the style expected of a landed noble.

  No Earl of Devonwood had ever yielded a foot of earth. He was determined not to be the first.

  “Actually, Miss Farnsworth, you might want to refrain from scolding me because in a few moments I’ll be taking your advice.”

  That brought her up short for half a step, but then she continued by his side. “How so?”

  “You pointed out to me this afternoon that my home abounds in beauties to which I’ve become inured. Since I suspect you are the sort who relishes being proved correct, I thought you might enjoy accompanying me as I rediscover the delights of my orangery.”

  He pushed open the door leading to the enclosed garden and the fresh breath of citrus, gardenias, and oleander rushed into his nostrils. The south-facing room was lined with Palladian windows and during his grandfather’s tenure as the earl, the slate roof had been replaced with glazed glass to further extend the artificial growing season. Now it exposed the black vault of the night sky and hazy stars winking above them, barely visible in the low flicker of the gas wall sconces.

  “Of course, the orangery at Devonwood Park is much larger.” It needed to be in order to service his rambling country estate. “But this little jewel box of a room is truly lovely, isn’t it?” he said with fresh appreciation for something he’d almost forgotten he possessed. “ ‘A thing of beauty—’ ”

  “ ‘Is a joy forever,’ ” she finished for him, unconcerned over interrupting a peer of the realm. She left his side to advance into the sweet-smelling bower, paused by the fountain, and smiled over her bare shoulder at him. “So you have read a bit from your library. I adore Keats, too.”

  Surprisingly enough, he didn’t mind that she’d interrupted him. Must be the novelty of anyone daring to do it.

  “Along with poetry, I also enjoy a spot of botany. I recognize most of the plants here,” she said, “but what is that creeper in the corner along the brick there?”

  “Ficus pumila.” The scientific name bubbled to the surface of his consciousness. It was one of the myriad facts he’d squirreled away during his interminable studies with his tutors before he went away to Oxford. Yet another speck of minutiae he’d never expected to need once he came into his title. Now, because of the way her brows arched in surprise, he was glad to be able to call up the information. “It’s a sort of climbing fig.”

  It had, in fact, climbed around the arch of one of the Palladian windows.

  “It does seem to be taking over,” she said. “Does it bear fruit?”

  “No, it can be pollinated only by a certain species of Asian wasp.”

  “So there can be no growth without the risk of a few stings,” she said.

  His mother wouldn’t welcome the introduction of winged six-legged beasties into their home, even in the interests of horticulture. “Who wants to deal with that?”

  She frowned at him. “Someone who likes figs. I doubt it’s occurred to you that all growth involves pain of some sort. You really don’t allow yourself to be inconvenienced in the slightest, do you?

  “I beg to differ. I suffered quite a sting in my library just this afternoon.”

  She had the grace to look chagrined. “About that . . . I hope you haven’t sustained any . . . lasting damage.”

  The becoming blush spread over her exposed skin again, like a maple tree erupting in the flame of autumn. Lord, he loved it when she changed colors.

  “I’m truly sorry, your lordship.”

  He almost asked if she’d like to kiss it to make it better, but decided he wasn’t nearly drunk enough to get away with that level of lewdness. Still the thought of her mouth on him made his cock swell and ache pleasantly.

  “Don’t think on it again.” If her knee to his groin was the price for being able to kiss her thoroughly, he considered it a bargain in hindsight. Especially since for some unknown reason, the kiss had completely banished his migraine. “However, I want you to know I don’t normally force myself on women who don’t welcome my attentions.”

  “Then why did you kiss me in the first place?”

  I saw myself kissing you in a vision and couldn’t resist the pull of destiny.

  No, he couldn’t divulge his foresight to her. The last person he’d taken into his confidence about his gift of touch was a professor at university whom he’d tried to warn about eating an apple too quickly. In Devon’s vision, the man died clutching his throat and thrashing on the floor. The professor began enquiring about the process of how one might quietly have a nobleman committed to Bedlam. Only the fact that Devon’s vision came to pass within the usual twelve hours ensured his continued freedom.

  “Who knows why a man feels his kiss will be welcomed by a woman? Courtship is a dance, a ritual, if you will. Signals are given and received,” Devon said. “Obviously, I must have misinterpreted yours.”

  “I’m gratified to hear you say so. I certainly didn’t intentionally encourage your advances.”

  Her hand crept to her cheek. She brushed back a tendril that had escaped her chignon, tucking it behind the shell of her ear, unaware he found that nervous gesture utterly adorable.

  “I want to assure you, milord,” she said in clipped tones, “that I do not make a habit of kissing men whose Christian names I don’t even know.”

  She fixed her gaze on the creeping fig as if unable to meet his eyes.

  “It’s Griffin,” he said suddenly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard it used. “My name is Griffin Titus Preston Nash.”

  “Griffin.” Her lips curved in a smile. “A mythological beast. I should have guessed.”

  A gryphon had the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion. With his confounded gift of touch and the future pressing in on him uninvited at any moment, he often felt less than human.

  “I suppose you think it fitting that I should be named for a monster,” he said.

  “Oh, no, not a monster. A gryphon is a majestic creature, a protector and guardian of the things it holds precious.” She bent to sniff a budding camellia.

  He plucked it off and gave it to her. If she had any idea what happened to her décolletage when she tipped forward like that . . . He was able to catch a fleeting glimpse of the slightly darker skin of her areolae around her nipples. If she knew, she wouldn’t do it.

  Or maybe she would, if she were trying to send him a furtive signal . . .

  “With a name like Griffin, I shouldn’t wonder that you’ve appointed yourself your brother’s keeper.” She held the camellia to her nose, closed her eyes, and inhaled. A smile burst over her face like sunrise cresting over Snowdon. “They mate for life, you know.”

  “Who does?”

  “Gryphons. I read a medieval treatise on them once.” The way she peered at him over the waxy petals of the flower reminded him of how she’d peeked over the top of Titus Andronicus. She sighed. “They are elegant and noble creatures. Even if one member of a mated pair dies, the other will not seek a new mate, but will grieve over its loss till it joins its true love in death.”

  “Gryphons are mythological, remember.”

  “I know, but it’s a charming thought in any case,” she said. “Fidelity is something to be prized.”

  So was loyalty to a brother, but Devon still felt an undeniable pull toward Miss Farnsworth.

  “I’m no coquette, Lord Devonwood, no debutante out to snag a husband. More of my life has been spent in lecture halls and on archaeological digs than in ballrooms. I speak Italian and French, but have no idea how to use the language of the fan. I’m not adept at this sort of game. I hadn’t considered that there are ways a woman might encourage a man without meaning to,” she said. “Just so there’s no mistake in the future, would you mind telling me why you thought I wanted you to kiss me this afternoon?”

  “Well, first
there’s your directness,” he said. “Your frankness of expression invites a man to be straightforward about his wishes right back.”

  “That hardly seems fair.” She twirled the camellia stem between her fingers, making the blossom spill fresh scent between them. “You mean a woman must parse her words and discuss only safe topics like the weather lest she seem to be encouraging a man’s advance?”

  “I don’t make the rules.”

  “And don’t play by them either, I’ll wager,” she said with a knowing grin.

  “You have me there.” Devon cocked his head in a self-deprecating gesture a certain widowed viscountess had once assured him was most charming. He might have saved himself the trouble. Miss Farnsworth edged away, not seeming the least charmed.

  “Very well. I shall confine myself to meteorological observations in your presence.” She straightened to her full, if inconsiderable, height and looked up at him. “Spring has already been quite sultry. As I’m unaccustomed to English weather, perhaps you could enlighten me. Do you think the summer will be sweltering?”

  “Ah, Miss Farnsworth, you’ve erred once again,” The orangery was humid enough to suggest a tropical Eden. A flash image of Emmaline Farnsworth, in glorious peach-toned nakedness, blushing as Eve never did, scrolled across his mind’s eye. Everything about this woman conspired to make him feel achingly male. “When you speak of anything as sultry, a man’s thoughts turn immediately to sweat-dampened sheets and bodies without clothing writhing upon them.”

  Her dark eyes flared wide. “Not a gentleman’s thoughts surely.”

  “All men’s thoughts. Ditch-digger or duke. Trust me in this.”

  “So a woman is unable to speak her mind on anything without danger of misunderstanding?”

  “It pains me to admit it, but beneath our civilized trappings, all men are dogs.” Devon shrugged. “It’s the nature of the beast.”

  “Very well. I shall embrace silence when I am in your company.” Her generous lips clamped shut.

  “I’m not sure that’s the best course either. Silence begs to be filled and not necessarily by speech.” He moved closer to her but this time she didn’t edge away. Her peach scent tantalized him over the citrusy fragrance of the orangery. “We all surround ourselves with a bit of unoccupied room. If a man encroaches on a woman’s space and she doesn’t offer to correct him, he can’t be blamed for feeling a tacit welcome.”

  “So that which is not expressly forbidden is assumed to be accepted?”

  She still didn’t step back, didn’t shy away.

  He braced a hand on the palm tree trunk over her shoulder and leaned toward her. “Yes.”

  “I see.” She worried her lower lip a bit, long enough to make him wish he could suckle it as well. “So you think because I don’t run from you like a scared rabbit, I want you to kiss me again.”

  “The thought has occurred to me.”

  “Don’t entertain it. As you pointed out, I’m a very direct person,” she said, focusing her gaze somewhere between his chin and sternum with only occasional nervous flicks upward to meet his eyes. “Rest assured. If I wanted a kiss from you, I would initiate one myself.”

  “I doubt that.” He laughed. “What a terrified little bunny you are. Look at yourself. You’re frozen like a coney with a hound sniffing nearby. Too addlepated to even look me in the eye, let alone kiss me.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” She glared up at him, annoyance glittering in her dark eyes now.

  “I’m rarely wrong about this sort of thing.”

  “You are this time. Consider me an exception to the rule.” She reached up, cupped both his cheeks, and kissed him right on the mouth.

  CHAPTER 8

  Emma intended to give him a resounding smack, a mere exclamation point of a kiss, simply to emphasize her words. But his mouth was so beguiling, so firm and warm, she found herself lingering like an unfinished sentence, dangling midair in search of a rational conclusion. His arms circled round her with a rightness that belied the wrongness of the kiss.

  He’d goaded her to this, as surely as a lamb driven to market.

  And she’d allowed him to.

  Whatever is not expressly forbidden is assumed to be accepted. She hadn’t forbidden him. Worse, she hadn’t forbidden herself.

  His masculine scent, rich with bergamot and sandalwood, tangled up with the perfume of the orangery. It was a gentle assault on her senses, but it bore down with unrelenting persistence, like the trickle of water that will eventually hollow out solid rock.

  His mouth moved surely on hers, tempting her to tarry in the sweet wickedness of this moment.

  Even though she knew everything about this kiss, this moment, this man, was wrong, she couldn’t pull herself away from the torrent of sensation. His lips on hers stirred up an inner storm. It was like heat lightning sparking across a summer sky, crackling with both potent energy and potential disaster.

  Oh, Lord, not another inappropriate thought about the weather.

  It brought back his comment about sweat-dampened sheets and bare bodies. Coupled with Devon’s kiss, the mental image made her feel achy and swollen.

  Needy.

  Ready to writhe on a sweat-dampened sheet.

  Emmaline had always been a very private person. The idea of being that close to another human being with nothing to shelter behind was daunting. She was aware of the mechanics of sexual congress. She knew what transpired between a man and a woman, knew what would be expected of her should she ever become a wife, but until she’d kissed Griffin Titus Preston Nash, Lord Devonwood, she’d never understood how a woman might want to engage in such intimacies.

  How would it feel to be all tangled up with this man, slick and wanting? Bare of soul as well as body?

  It would be wicked and wanton and wonderful all at once. She was hollow with longing.

  Her insides clenched as his tongue swept into her mouth in a soft, moist parody of how their bodies might join in other ways. That other connection, the sinful one that was topmost in her mind, would not be soft like his kiss. It would not be sweet.

  It would be a possession. A claiming. A rutting, swiving, shagging, fu—

  No. She’d heard those coarse words plenty of times. Her father’s fellow confidence artists were not known for delicacy of speech except when it suited their schemes. But she’d never said those words. Never even thought them.

  Till now.

  Now they were all she could think. The aching hollow inside her longed to be filled. She imagined how it would be, stretched out with Devon on those sweat-soaked sheets.

  In. Out. Hard. Bruising, even.

  Her body didn’t seem to mind this mental ravishment. In fact, it cheered this line of thought by weeping fresh moisture and speeding up the drumbeat of urgency that pounded between her thighs.

  Devon released her mouth and began to kiss his way down her throat to her bared décolletage. Her nipples hardened painfully, throbbing for his touch. If his uneven breathing was any measure, he wanted her as badly as she craved him.

  His need touched her in a deep sheltered place and made her chest constrict. She ran her hand through his dark hair, reveling in the newfound sense of feminine control she felt as he worshiped the exposed parts of her breasts.

  Control, Monty always preached. Control of the mark. Control of the information. Control of every aspect of the situation spells the difference between the success and failure of the long confidence game.

  It was his primary rule. Her heady illusion of control over the earl was just that. Illusion. She was playing with forces beyond her experience.

  And she was further jeopardizing Monty’s chances in the big game with each passing moment she spent in this lovely, filthy diversion with Theodore’s brother. If her waywardness led to their being thrown to the streets, what would become of Monty then?

  Devon’s hand slid into her bodice, claiming a breast. Desire seared from her nipple to her womb in a lightning flash of wanting.

&
nbsp; “Griffin,” she whimpered. “Please.”

  “Of course, I’ll please you. Anything you want,” he murmured into the hollow of her décolletage. He lifted her breast, exposing a nipple above the cream and rose bodice, and flicked it with his tongue.

  Oh, God.

  How to stop. How to end this delicious torment.

  She didn’t think she had the strength.

  He took the taut peak into his mouth and she thought she might turn into a puddle on the orangery floor.

  Hoping to gain resolve, she tried to recall Theodore’s face. Even though she’d spent almost every waking moment with him for the last three months, his features were hazy or at best mere shadows of Griffin’s sharper ones.

  With supreme effort, she called up Monty in her mind. She couldn’t disappoint him like this. He needed her to keep her head, to think strategically, and not get swept up in wanton dalliance.

  “Griffin,” she said again, barely aware her lips were moving.

  “Hmmm?” He kissed his way back up to her mouth while his finger and thumb continued to torment her.

  She pressed a hand over her breast to still its silent pleading. Lord Devonwood’s lips were but a finger-width’s from hers. His face seemed different.

  Sensual. Vulnerable. As if he’d shed his title and was simply a hungry man like any other, intent on working his way under her skirt.

  But no matter who he seemed to be, it didn’t change who she was. Or what she had to do.

  “Stop,” she pleaded.

  He kissed her again and her insides continued to melt. She’d had no idea she could ache so.

  “Please,” she moaned into his mouth.

  He stopped and looked down at her, still rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Every fiber of her being was intent on his wicked byplay. Who’d have suspected the needs of that tiny bit of flesh could so consume her?

  “You’re quite certain that’s what you want?” he asked.

  “No,” she admitted, “but we must.”

  He still didn’t release her, didn’t decrease the gentle pressure on her nipple. She slid her hand between her exposed skin and his damnably talented fingers, to shield herself from his touch.