How the Scoundrel Seduces

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “Don’t what?” His fingers stroked her through her gown. “Desire you? Need you?”

  “Yes . . . no . . .” She frantically tried to grab her wits before they fled entirely. “You’re just doing this to keep me from asking you about the theft.”

  “Not a bit.” He nipped her ear, making her gasp. “I don’t care what you ask, because I won’t talk about what happened in Yorkshire.”

  Lisette’s earlier words about avoiding their home county leapt into her mind. “But the rumors are true, aren’t they? You did steal a horse. Otherwise you wouldn’t refuse to speak of it.” Or avoid Yorkshire.

  “As I said before, it’s not that simple. And it’s not your concern.”

  “But it is,” she choked out as his hand moved in ever-widening circles, making her wobbly inside and out. “What if you get arrested?”

  “Are you worried about me?”

  “Yes! Your sister was concerned enough to caution you about involving Milosh. How could I not worry about you?”

  “You needn’t.” His breath grew heavy on her neck, and his hand was roaming now, inching up to her bosom. “I can take care of myself.” His hand covered her breast. “And you.”

  Pure shock kept her frozen. But when he kneaded her there, where she hadn’t even known she wanted his touch, the sensations bursting through her drove out the shock and replaced it with a wild, ungoverned thrill that was better even than riding neck-or-nothing through Winborough’s fields.

  “Ohhh, Tristan . . .” she moaned.

  Deftly, he unfastened her redingote just enough to slip his hand inside, and then down beneath her corset and her shift to her naked flesh.

  Her naked flesh. Good Lord in heaven.

  When his thumb thrummed her nipple with delicate strokes, she nearly came out of her skin. Anything that felt that amazing had to be wrong.

  “You shouldn’t . . . we shouldn’t . . .”

  “Why not?” His other hand roamed now, inching down her belly.

  “Because . . . because . . .” It was hard to think in the wake of such astonishing caresses.

  “Romany or not, you were raised an heir to a kingdom . . . a princess, if you will. And princesses can have whatever—whomever—they damned well please.” His voice lowered to a fierce rasp. “So have me.”

  Her heart did a little somersault. She chided it ruthlessly. “As what?” she whispered. “My paramour?”

  He was inching up her skirts now, dragging them up her thighs. She ought to run away.

  She couldn’t.

  “Keane isn’t right for you,” he said hoarsely.

  “That’s not an answer.” And still she didn’t run away.

  “But it’s true, all the same.” He gently pinched her nipple, and her soft cry echoed in the empty room. “Tell me, Zoe, does he make you yearn? Make you feel like this?”

  “How would I know? He’s never . . . touched me this way.”

  He fondled her breast shamelessly. “And do you want him to? Do you imagine it, think of it, wish for it?”

  “He’s . . . he’s a respectable gentleman.”

  “Some gentleman, going off to brothels for his pleasure,” he growled. “And what does that have to do with anything?”

  “A respectable gentleman wouldn’t make me . . . want this.”

  “Ballocks.”

  The coarse curse should have brought her out of her senseless fever to have him touch her. Instead, it added to the delicious wickedness of it.

  He laved her ear with his tongue. “Any man you plan to marry should do precisely that, respectable or no. And the fact that Keane doesn’t—”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  That seemed to unleash some recklessness in him, for with a muttered oath, he dropped his hand from her breast to where his other hand now lifted her skirts above her thighs. Then he cupped her between the legs. Right over the part of her that felt hot and achy and damp.

  She groaned.

  “Are you telling me you want him to touch you like this?” He branded her neck with rough, needy kisses. “That you want him to excite you the way I am?”

  She made a last effort to fight the languorous enjoyment stealing her will. “Who says . . . you excite me?”

  With a muttered curse, he combed his fingers through her curls down there until he was stroking the slick flesh. “Your lush, wet heat does. You want me.”

  “No,” she lied.

  “Yes.” He delved deeply with one finger, and she nearly went out of her mind.

  “Oh my . . . Tristan. Tristan.” She dug her fingers into his thighs as she arched up against his hand. “What . . . are you doing to me?”

  “Arousing you,” he said in a guttural murmur. “Showing you how it should be between a man and a woman who desire each other.”

  “So now you . . . mean to give me lessons? The sort of lessons I ought to be learning from my future husband?”

  “While he’s off spending his time in and out of brothels?” He was rubbing himself against her now, his thickened flesh like a brand against her bottom.

  “That’s hypocritical . . . coming from you.”

  He stroked her hard between her legs, making her gasp. Making her want. “Tell me the truth, Zoe. Do you desire Keane?”

  His sensual caresses made it impossible for her to think. For her to do anything but feel. And yearn. And need. “Why does it matter?”

  “Because if you desire him, I swear I’ll let you be from now on. I’ll let you pursue him to your heart’s content.”

  She ought to lie. She couldn’t. “It doesn’t matter if I desire him. I still have to . . . pursue him.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question, and you know it.”

  Abruptly, he turned her in his arms to press her against the door. He still held her skirts bunched up in one hand, exposing her from the waist down, but now he leaned into her as he resumed his fondling below.

  With ruthless intent, he kissed his way down the opening in her redingote to the swells showing above her corset. As her breath quickened, he released her skirts so he could pull down her corset cup to expose one linen-clad breast. Then he seized it in his mouth through the fabric and sucked it. Hard. Thrillingly.

  A groan of pure pleasure escaped her, and she caught him by the shoulders to hold him close. He tongued her nipple as his finger continued its cursed caress until she was shimmying beneath him and wanting things she couldn’t begin to understand.

  Abruptly he halted everything. When she uttered an inarticulate cry, he ground out, “Tell me, damn you! Do you want him?”

  “No!” When his eyes searched her face, she admitted, “Not like this. No.”

  An intense satisfaction lit his face. “Thank God.”

  Then he was kissing her hard, his hands inflaming her senses above and below. It was too much at once. With a deep moan of surrender, she gave herself up to the delicious excitement. Oh, to have him like this with her always . . .

  No, she wouldn’t torture herself. He was with her now, giving her a taste of what it could be like . . . if he weren’t such a rootless rogue.

  “How you make me burn,” he murmured against her mouth. Leaving off caressing her breast, he caught her hand and pushed it down to cover the bulge in his trousers. “You see what you do to me? You see how you drive me mad?”

  She exulted at the idea of holding him enraptured, and rubbed the long length of him through his trousers.

  With a guttural moan, he thrust into her hand. “Hell and thunder, yes. Like that, princess. I didn’t sleep last night because of this . . . this ache for you.”

  “Me neither,” she admitted, reveling in how his flesh seemed to leap beneath her fingers. “You’re more accomplished at roguery than I realized.”

  “This isn’t roguery.”

  Her heart soared. She hated herself for it. “Then what is it?”

  “I don’t know. But I’ve never done this with a woman like you before. Never wanted to.” The uncertainty in
his face told her that he spoke the truth. “I only know . . . I don’t want it to end.”

  He thumbed her between the legs in a blatantly carnal caress that jolted her. And made her press herself into his hand in a wordless demand for more.

  In answer, he undid his trousers enough to slide her hand inside. “Stroke me while I give you pleasure, sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart? He’d never called her that.

  His gaze burned into her as he closed her hand around his rigid staff. “Let us find our pleasure together.”

  “I don’t even know what that means,” she whispered, but she let him guide her into pulling on his . . . his thing, up and down, over and over.

  “It means I won’t ruin you,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “But I do intend to make my mark on you, to keep you from hurtling headlong into an ill-considered marriage to . . . Keane.”

  The flush in his face, the responsiveness of his flesh to her touch, fascinated her. But he gave her no time to dwell on it or question his motives, before he was kissing and fondling her again.

  This time his strokes were steady, calculated to set a fire in her. He ignited the blaze with his fiery touch, fed it and stoked it and fed it some more, until her very skin felt aflame, and she was panting and moaning.

  He tore his mouth from hers. “Yes, sweetheart, like that. Let it take you.” His eyes were unfocused. “Come for me. I want to see you . . . shatter.” As he quickened the motion of his thumb below, he urged her hand to increase its pace as well. “I want to . . . shatter with you.”

  Lord, that was exactly how his strokes against that pulsing place between her legs felt, a persistent drumming like the . . . rap of a hammer against glass. Tapping . . . tapping . . . tapping . . . until the glass . . . chipped . . . then cracked . . . then shattered!

  She cried out, and he swallowed the cry with his mouth as his flesh jerked in her hand and he shattered, too.

  They stood there a moment, joined at the mouth, joined by the shared intimacy of their hands down there. It was lovely and sweet and the most wonderful moment of her life.

  Until out of nowhere, the words of the fortune-teller leapt into her mind: If you let him, he will shatter your heart.

  Lord save her. It might already be too late to prevent that.

  With a moan, she jerked her hand from his trousers. It was damp, and she stared down at it uncomprehendingly for a moment, before the truth hit her. “No. No, no, no . . .”

  Panic rising in her chest, she wiped her hand on her petticoat, then slid from between him and the door. As her skirts fell once more to cover her shameless body, she worked frantically at fastening her redingote buttons.

  She refused to fall in love with him. She couldn’t. Mustn’t.

  “Zoe . . .”

  “Enough, Tristan. You made your point.”

  Scowling, he buttoned his trousers. “And what point was that?”

  She could scarcely breathe, much less think. She must have lost her mind to let him . . . to do what they had just . . . Heaven save her. “That you’re a master at seduction.”

  “That wasn’t the point I was making,” he said hoarsely as he came toward her.

  “No?” She scooped up her gloves and bonnet. “You weren’t trying to prove that I find you more appealing than I do my cousin?”

  “All right, that was part of it, but—” He fixed her with a bleak stare. “You shouldn’t marry a man you don’t desire.”

  “But I can’t marry the man whom I do desire, can I? He doesn’t want a wife—and even if he did, it wouldn’t help my situation.” She hurried for the door. “So now I get to know what I’ll be missing, and be even more miserable marrying the only choice of husband open to me. Thank you.”

  He blocked her path. “Damn it, Zoe, that wasn’t what I was trying to do.”

  “But that’s what you achieved.” She scowled at him. “And all because you wanted to distract me from asking questions about your checkered past.”

  “That is not why!”

  “Isn’t it?” Fighting back tears, she tied her bonnet on and donned her gloves. “Every time I mention Milosh, you say he’s connected to my case, but when you spoke to that old woman you didn’t even ask about Drina until I prodded you.”

  His face grew grayer by the moment.

  Though she knew she was partly chafing at the fact that he wanted her only in his bed, she couldn’t prevent the bitter accusations from pouring out. “Did you ever even intend to find Drina? Or was that just a ruse to settle your own affairs?”

  He bore down on her, forcing her away from the door. “I didn’t travel to Liverpool to find Milosh, that’s for damned sure. And today, when you were with me, you watched me spend an entire day hunting for the elusive Drina.”

  “Yet all we gained was directions to your childhood friend.” Her voice shook. “Who might get you arrested somehow for horse thieving.”

  “Hell and thunder, he’s not going to get me arrested!” He looked around for his hat and gloves. “Is that what this is about? You’re worried I won’t get your bloody information for you?”

  “Perhaps,” she lied. “What good will you do me if you end up in gaol?”

  A muscle jerked in his jaw. “That’s what this comes down to. You still don’t trust me.” As he clapped his hat on his head, his gaze drifted down her with an insolence that made her bristle. “You’re perfectly happy to let me kiss you and put my hands on you, but God forbid you trust me with anything important.” He whirled toward the door.

  She followed him, a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach. “That’s not fair! You hide the truth and follow your own plan and refuse to tell me how your friend and your half brother George and my case are connected. Yet you think I should just believe whatever—”

  “I don’t give a damn what you believe.” He reached the door and yanked on his gloves. “My past is my concern. I have a right to keep it to myself. You paid me to investigate your past, not mine.”

  Grabbing the door handle, he gave her a cold glance that chilled her to the bone. “So now you have a decision to make. Tonight I will speak to Milosh and learn what I can about your mother. Meanwhile, you need to figure out if you still trust me to handle this. If not, just say the word when I give you my report at Rotten Row tomorrow afternoon, and I’ll hand the whole thing over to Dom.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon! But you have to take me with you when you go tonight.”

  “Are you mad? It was hard enough to arrange this jaunt today; there’s no way in hell to sneak you out of your father’s house at night just so you can—”

  “How do I know you’ll even ask about Drina?” She was still smarting from his refusal to give her the facts about his past. “You won’t tell me how you’re connected to Milosh. For all I know, you have your own plans for him.”

  His eyes blazed at her. “So that’s what you think of me. I’m always going to be the dirty bastard to you, the coarse, unmannerly oaf in gentleman’s clothing.”

  “I didn’t say that,” she whispered.

  “You didn’t have to.” He yanked open the door. “And since you obviously think me a liar and a thief, I will let Dom handle the matter from now on.”

  He stalked out onto the frozen path and headed for the road, the tail of his greatcoat flapping in the wind.

  Lifting her skirts, she ran after him in a fury. “How dare you blame me for your . . . your pigheaded refusal to tell me what’s going on? I have a right to know!”

  Like the cursed man that he was, he just kept walking.

  Up ahead, the duchess’s coach pulled up and the footman helped Lisette out. She came toward them with a smile. “I hope I didn’t take too long,” she said as she approached. “But the cookshop was farther than I thought.”

  “It’s fine,” Tristan clipped out. “We’re fine. She’s all yours. I’m going on.” He paused to glance back at Zoe as she reached them. “I’ll give my report to Dom in the morning. He can pass it on to you.” He
tipped his hat. “Good day to you, my lady.”

  He continued resolutely toward a horse tied to a tree farther down the street.

  “Drat you, Tristan!” Zoe cried, and hurried after him.

  The duchess caught her by the arm before she could even pass. “Let him go for now. When he’s in a temper, there’s no reasoning with him.”

  “But you don’t understand.”

  “I understand you’ll get nowhere with him if you don’t let him cool down.” Lisette gazed over to where he’d already untied his mount and was swinging into the saddle. “Come. Let’s head back to your father’s. You can tell me all about it on the way. Then if you still want to face down a bear, I’ll make sure to get him trapped up a tree for you, all right?”

  He was already riding off. She couldn’t exactly run after a cantering horse. With a nod, she let the duchess lead her back to the Lyons carriage.

  They climbed in and set off toward Mayfair. Zoe was a seething mass of emotion—one minute furious, the next despairing, blaming herself for pressing the issue, then blaming Tristan for taking her halfway to seduction while still refusing to tell her anything.

  He claimed she didn’t trust him? He didn’t trust her one whit!

  “So tell me,” Lisette said, “what has my brother done now?”

  Perhaps the duchess would reveal what Tristan wouldn’t. “He claims that Milosh has something to do with my case, but he won’t say how. What the devil does Milosh have to do with Tristan?”

  Lisette winced. “I gather that my brother really doesn’t want you—”

  “To know that he stole a horse from your half brother? That he fled to France because of it?”

  “He told you?”

  She debated whether to lie. But it hardly seemed fair to gain information by deception when what she wanted was an end to the deception. “No. I heard rumors from my father, and I need to know how much is true. And how much is foolish society gossip.” Her voice grew choked. “Tristan won’t tell me. Will you?”

  The duchess looked troubled. “What’s so important about your case that you ask me to reveal something about my family history that very few people have ever heard? Can you tell me why you want to know?”

  Zoe swallowed. “I wish I could. But my case isn’t just my own. Too much is at stake for me to unveil my secrets.” Reaching forward, she seized Lisette’s hands. “But I can tell you I need to know for more than just reasons of this case. Your brother is . . . not merely an investigator to me.”