Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3)

by Mia Marlowe

  Emmaline didn’t feel sensible. Any woman who let one brother court her while she pined for the other one’s kisses was not sensible. By night in her bed, she relived those wicked moments in the orangery with Devon. The mere thought of his mouth at her breast was enough to prick her nipples to hard awareness and cause moist warmth to heat her inner parts.

  Distressingly, it wasn’t just her body that wept for him. She longed for him in a dozen other ways. She ached to hear him laugh. He did it so seldom, but the few times she’d heard it, the sound threatened to break her heart with borrowed joy.

  She yearned to talk with him about the books in his library, to ask him about his boyhood, to plumb the depths of his fine mind. He was like the library in so many ways—a treasure trove of secrets and adventures waiting to be discovered if she was brave enough to dare the scowl he wore to warn others away.

  It made no sense for her to moon around after this man. She really didn’t know enough about him for that. But she wanted to know him.

  Wanted it with a desperation bordering on sickness.

  She’d been levelheaded enough to keep out of Lord Devonwood’s path for the past fortnight or so, but it wasn’t easy. How did one avoid a thunderstorm? Who could outrun a flood? A chance meeting with the lord of the house in a secluded corner was a disaster waiting to happen.

  Emma didn’t need a disaster. She needed a miracle. She needed enough money to see Monty admitted for treatment at the Görbersdorf sanatorium before a wet fall came and swept summer clean away. Her father’s breathing had been better in the hot dry heat of Egypt, but based on the way his illness had progressed in London’s damp summer, she doubted he’d survive another winter in northern climes without life-saving treatment.

  “It’s just that beauty, not unlike a mark, often forgets caution,” Monty said, chucking her under the chin. “I’m glad you haven’t let some gentleman make a fool of you.”

  It was the closest he’d ever come to giving her a lecture on morality. Monty wasn’t the pontificating sort. When the time came for her to learn what passed between a man and a woman, he’d given her a medical treatise on the subject and told her to use her imagination.

  He hadn’t needed to tell her that chastity was her best option. She was smart enough to figure out it was the only winning card she held.

  “Don’t you worry about me,” she told him as he escorted her out the door of their suite. The rest of the party was probably waiting for them below. “My father raised no fool.”

  As they reached the lowest landing, she saw that only Lord Devonwood stood in the center of the marble foyer. She’d never seen him less than well turned out, but this night he fairly gleamed with sartorial splendor.

  However, his allure went far deeper than a tailor’s art. There was something about the man himself, beneath the trappings of an earldom, a certain elegant aggression in his stance that made Emmaline’s breath catch and her heart do a shuddering little jig.

  Why couldn’t it do that when she looked at Theodore?

  He glowered down at his pocket watch for a moment. Then he tucked it away, the gold chain and fob glittering against the superfine of his jacket. Her father’s clacking footfalls on the stairs made him look up.

  If Lord Devonwood had intended to chide her for tardiness, the reproof died on his lips.

  In the time it took to flick an eyelash, Emmaline saw raw desire flare in his eyes. Then just as quickly, the earl schooled his face into a bland mask. She wondered if her own features telegraphed the unsettling flutter of her insides as clearly as his heat-filled glance.

  “Good evening, professor. Miss Farnsworth, if I may.” He held out her short silk cape and waited for her to turn around so he could drape it most correctly over her shoulders. By the time she’d completed her turn, he’d shepherded her father out the door ahead of them and waited to offer her his arm.

  It would be churlish not to take it after he’d comported himself like such a gentleman.

  He bowed when she rested her gloved fingertips on his forearm. “That violet gown is most becoming, Miss Farnsworth.”

  “Thank you, milord.” How should she return the compliment? You make my pantaloons twist, too, milord would be honest, at least.

  “I find the current trend in women’s fashions both fascinating and mystifying,” he said as they strolled out the broad double doors toward the barouche that waited on the street. The countess, Louisa, and Theodore were already in the equipage and her father was being helped in by one of the Devonwood House footmen. “Louisa is constantly complaining about how tightly she has to be laced in order to fit into the narrow waist of her gowns. It almost seems as if modistes are determined not to use an inch more fabric than necessary on the top half of a woman’s ensemble, but when it comes to the skirt, they’ve gone a bit balmy. I believe my mother said her gown’s skirt measures fifty-eight inches across. I’m sure my sister’s is that wide as well.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it.” Her own crinoline also pushed the farthest limits of fashion, but she had no idea why such details should matter to Lord Devonwood.

  By the time they reached the barouche, her father and Theodore were embroiled in a debate over whether the cartouche on the right side of the Tetisheri statue ought to be translated as “eternal” or “lasting.”

  Emmaline realized immediately why Lord Devonwood was taken with fashion all of a sudden. The women’s skirts filled the carriage, so there was no room for another passenger.

  “Ah,” Lord Devonwood said with a hint of a smile. “There’s insufficient room for Miss Farnsworth and me. We’ll catch a hansom and join you at Lord Whitmore’s.”

  Before anyone could object, he closed the door and slapped the side of the barouche with the flat of his hand to signal the driver to move along.

  Whether she liked it or not, Emmaline would have to be alone with the earl for the length of a cab ride to Lord Whitmore’s town house. Unfortunately, a wicked part of her would like it very much.

  Very much indeed.

  CHAPTER 14

  “You arranged matters to ensure this would happen,” she accused.

  “It is not my fault women dress in such outlandish costumes that a carriage which should have easily held six will only accommodate four.” He gestured to the cab that was stopped at the end of the block and the equipage started toward them.

  She was right, of course. He’d made sure his mother and sister were ready before Emmaline by giving them an earlier departure time. He hoped she wouldn’t guess he’d also arranged for the hansom to be available at his signal.

  “One could as easily believe that you finessed a way not to ride in the barouche by virtue of being the last woman to descend this evening,” he said.

  “You know better than that.” Her dark eyes snapped at him. She’d been resolute in her determination not to be caught alone with him.

  “I suppose I do.” He wasn’t proud of stooping to trickery in order to be with her, but the need to have her to himself was smothering. Like having an anvil on his chest. Even though she frowned like a stern governess, he breathed easier just being with her. It made no sense to his mind that merely being in her presence should have that effect on him, but there was no denying it simply was. “You’ve made your aversion to my company quite plain.”

  “It’s not that.” Her lips turned inward for a moment as if she wished to shush herself. Then she met his gaze steadily. “It’s my lack of aversion to your company that is the problem.”

  Emmaline didn’t despise him, then. Like a batsman who’d just struck the winning run, something inside him leaped up in victory. When he offered her his hand as the hansom rattled to a stop before them, she slipped her gloved one into it and allowed him to assist her into the cab.

  “You have no cause for alarm now, my dear Miss Farnsworth. As you can see, we’ll be chaperoned by London itself in this open equipage.”

  There was still plenty of foot traffic even though the gas lamps were being lit a
long the thoroughfare. Night was drawing around them, but technically they’d still be in the public eye. He’d considered hiring an enclosed carriage to take them to Whitmore’s, but figured it would be more temptation than he could resist. He told himself he wanted only to talk with her, to reassure her that he was not the sort of monster who would try to seduce his brother’s intended.

  The fact that he’d like nothing better than to shag her senseless was beside the point.

  As the cab rattled along, she fidgeted with her fan, opening and closing it for no apparent reason.

  “You’re nervous about this evening,” he guessed.

  “Wouldn’t you be?” She sighed. “I wish Theodore hadn’t made his intentions toward me so very public. These are his friends, his people, I’ll be meeting tonight. I’m sure they’ll be wondering what he sees in me.”

  “I don’t think that will come into question at all,” Devon said. “You’re bright and attractive and—”

  “Dowerless and common,” she interrupted.

  “You know you really shouldn’t do that.”

  She rolled her luminous eyes at him. “What? Interrupt an earl when he’s trying to whitewash a problem?”

  “No, interrupt a man when he’s trying to give you a compliment.”

  She cast her gaze downward, her dark lashes quivering on her cheeks. “You were attempting to be nice and I failed to note it. My apologies.”

  “It wasn’t an attempt,” he said with irritation. “I was being nice.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  “Griffin,” he corrected. He ached to hear her say his name.

  “Griffin,” she whispered.

  It was barely audible over the steady clop of the horse’s hooves and the clatter of wheels on cobbles, but she’d said it nonetheless.

  Now if he could only get her to think of him as “Griffin” instead of “Lord Devonwood.”

  “You’re right, of course,” he said. “You will be the subject of scrutiny tonight. And the ton will be collectively wondering why you haven’t snapped up one of its most eligible bachelors. The worst of the gossips will probably assume money is the issue. They’ll believe you hesitate because you fear the family will cut Theodore off if he marries you.”

  “Teddy and I have never discussed that,” she said, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt in order to avoid meeting his eyes. He wished she’d look at him again.

  Maybe she’d really see him if she did.

  “Then it will be of no consequence to you either way if my brother suddenly finds himself without means.” Devon didn’t know why he’d said that. He’d never cut his brother off, no matter what Theodore did.

  “But it may matter to Teddy,” she said. “He values your good opinion more than his stipend. Cutting him off from you would hurt him more than stopping his allowance.”

  Guilt was an unwelcome bastard. Devon shoved it aside. He would feel guilty later, when he wasn’t with her. Now he simply wanted to bask in her presence, to let her low voice wash over him like warm rain, to fall headlong into her coffee-colored eyes. He’d trade his soul to the devil if he could simply feel normal all the time, as he did when he was around Emmaline Farnsworth.

  “There may even be a few less than charitable tongue-waggers who claim you haven’t accepted Theodore because you’re angling for someone else.”

  Damned if I’m not as hopeful as a spotty-faced boy.

  “Who would that be, milord?”

  He snorted. Not only had she smacked him down, he was back to “milord” again after having tasted the joy of being “Griffin” for a moment.

  Then one of the hansom wheels dipped into a pothole and her fan flew out of her hand. Instinctively, he reached for it to keep it from falling from the carriage. The moment his fingers closed over the ivory handle, he realized he ought to have donned his gloves. He’d kept them in his pocket so he could enjoy the unfettered pleasure of touching Emmaline as he helped her descend from the cab once they reached their destination.

  It was a huge mistake.

  The world went soft and hazy as a sharper reality scrolled over his vision. He could still see the London neighborhood they traveled through—there was the tailor’s shop, the baker, the pungent fishmonger—but they were shadowy images, fleeting scents, faded sounds, mere reflections. The Sending from Emmaline’s fan appeared in stark relief, dark across the indistinct backdrop of reality.

  It was the only true thing in his world at the moment.

  Devon heard the door creak but didn’t turn to see who’d entered the room. It was too dark to see properly, but that only served to put his other senses on high alert. He knew who was there in any case. A slight peach fragrance announced her arrival, but it was shrouded with a heavier scent, a spicy floral.

  He still knew it was she.

  Soft footfalls told him Emmaline was approaching the bed. She hesitated. Every fiber in his body screamed with excited awareness, but he forced himself to breathe as if he still slept.

  She lifted a corner of the sheet, the soft rustle of bed linens unnaturally loud to his ears. Then the mattress dipped slightly as she slipped in beside him.

  He still didn’t move. He didn’t dare for fear the vision would take a disastrous turn and she’d run screaming from him.

  Her hand, hesitant and cool, brushed his shoulder. Then her palm smoothed down his spine. She moved closer and curved herself around him, tucking herself against his backside and pressing her cheek between his shoulder blades.

  Her breasts were soft against his bare back. Only her thin nightshift separated them.

  He breathed a silent thanks to whatever God might listen to an undeserving wretch’s prayer. Against all expectation, she’d come to him.

  It was a minor miracle.

  He resisted moving, lest he break the spell. But when she reached around and let her fingertips flutter over his belly, he couldn’t remain immobile another second.

  He rolled over and pinned her to the feather tick.

  Emmaline made a soft sound, as if she’d started to say something, but his mouth covered hers.

  What did they need with words? She was there in his bed of her own volition. Words would only muddy the waters. There was no purer communication than the warm glide of skin on skin, the tattoo of two hearts falling into the same rhythm, the mystery of a shared breath.

  While he kissed her, he shifted to one side so he could pull up her nightgown. She trembled when his fingertips brushed over her knees and past her thighs. He toyed with the curls between her legs. Griffin swallowed her small sound of need as he gently parted her intimate folds. She was warm, feverish almost, in her most secret parts.

  He feared he might have rushed matters, but he needn’t have worried. She was already wet. Slippery and slick and swollen with wanting. When he touched her, a shudder of desire rippled over him in tandem with her shiver of delight. She arched into his hand, her softness molding to his palm.

  He’d never felt so wanted.

  Griffin settled his hips between her legs and while he tongued her mouth, he pushed into her wetness. A slow, deliberate claiming.

  He was stopped by the barrier of her purity.

  He hadn’t expected her to be a virgin. She didn’t kiss like one. She certainly didn’t spread her legs and hook her ankles at the small of his back like one.

  But she was.

  He withdrew slightly and then pushed himself home in a single rending thrust. She went rigid beneath him. There was no going back now, but he wasn’t sure she wanted him to go forward. He held still, barely daring to breathe.

  He wished there was more light. She was only a dark shadow beneath him. He wished she could see how much this incredible gift meant to him.

  “No more pain now,” he whispered and kissed her neck.

  “My lord,” she said softly. “Are you quite all right? You’ve gone so pale.”

  How could she see him if it was still too dark for him to see her clearly?

&nbs
p; “Please, milord. What’s wrong? Cabbie, stop the hansom!” she called out.

  Suddenly Emmaline’s face came into sharp focus and the Sending faded as she took her fan from his hand.

  CHAPTER 15

  Lord Devonwood didn’t blink. He barely breathed. His face had blanched to the color of white marble and a large vein stood out on his forehead. He was still blessed with buckets of masculine beauty, but he was also clearly in agony for some unknown reason. Panic swirled in Emmaline’s gut.

  “Griffin, what’s wrong?” She gripped his forearm, as much to steady herself as to give him comfort.

  His eyelids closed slowly, his thick lashes settling like curtains being lowered. Then, as if recovering from a mesmerist’s trick, he gave himself a slight shake and drew a deep breath. His pupils were so enlarged, his usually pale eyes were nearly black, the irises reduced to slender gray rings. His features were drawn taut, the skin scraped thin over his angular bones.

  He smiled at her.

  A strangely knowing smile. Then he looked away.

  “I’m fine,” he said gruffly, then raised his voice to the cabbie. “Drive on.”

  “You most certainly are not fine. I’ve never seen anything like that. One moment you were talking and then suddenly it was as if you . . . weren’t here. I mean, of course, you were still physically here, but your mind seemed to have taken itself on holiday.”

  She knew she was babbling, but couldn’t help it. He’d scared her. Badly. Her nerves were frayed enough dealing with Monty’s illness. She didn’t think she could bear learning that Griffin suffered from some malady, too.

  “ ‘No more pain now,’ you said. Were you . . . are you in discomfort?”

  He pulled a pair of kidskin gloves from his pocket and jerked them on. “No, I’m perfectly well. Amazingly well, actually.”

  His color returned to normal and tension drained out of his features. The vein on his forehead disappeared. Even his eyes regained their silver-gray intensity. If she were the fanciful sort, she’d almost believe she’d imagined the event.