Never Seduce A Scoundrel

by Heather Grothaus

  “It’s a miracle you weren’t killed, really. They’re not very bruised,” Joan observed as she dabbed at the abrasions carefully. “Just terribly sputtered.”

  Oliver gave a wordless shrug. Sputtered?

  Joan finished washing his legs and then dried them gently. She covered him once more with the coverlet—“We shall wait until Lady Cecily treats you before seeing you in bed properly.”—and then began collecting the soiled linens.

  Oliver pulled the weighty blanket the short distance remaining to his chin, chills overtaking him, and watched her. He had known Joan Barleg for nearly her entire life, and had known her in an intimate—if casual—manner for the past two years. She was quite attractive, her hair a rich blond, long and thick, like a mane. Her brown eyes had a slight lilt at the outside corners, perhaps a nod to Turkish ancestry. Her skin was clear and bright, but with a peachy undertone rather unlike the typical English milky complexion.

  She was easy for a man to talk to, if not exactly sharp witted. Her peculiar habit of butchering and then reassembling words for her own use hadn’t ever really annoyed Oliver before. Most thought her charming. She loved a joke or a juicy rumor. Her family was not well connected, which made Joan ambitious, and not afraid of a challenge. One score in age, junior to Oliver by seven years. Loyal—she had never, not in a single instance that Oliver could recall, displayed jealousy over his numerous women.

  In theory, she would make the perfect wife.

  “Joan,” he said to her after she had finished setting his bedside to rights, “there is something I would speak with you about.”

  “Yes, you said that last night.” She gave him a smile and a wink before perching on the side of the bed below his feet. “I didn’t dare hope that you would bring it up now that you are in so much pain. But I suppose a cozy with death does call for a change in one’s priorities.”

  Oliver was quiet for a moment. It would be easier for him to wait until he was feeling more himself, not so broken and agonized physically, and mentally tormented with ludicrous thoughts of Cecily Foxe of all people dancing circles in his brain. But it was unfair to continue to allow Joan to believe that he would be part of her future. He could ease into the news, he supposed. Break it to her gently. But he had no patience for that right now. Chivalry had parted ways with his intentions in much the same manner as the bones in his arm were broken. Better for them both to treat the matter as a thick thorn stuck in the bottom of one’s foot.

  Yank it out, and staunch the blood.

  “We’ll not get married, Joan.”

  The only change in her expression—smiling eyes, curved lips—was the slight downward flinching of her eyebrows.

  “Whatever are you talking about, Oliver?” she asked with a wider, if mildly perplexed, smile. “You’re going to be fine. I’ve no fear that I’ll be made a widow by a broken arm.”

  “I mean, I have no wish to marry.”

  She gave him a true frown then, but was calm where Oliver had expected an explosion of emotion.

  “That’s a silly thing to say. Why not?”

  “I’ve a lot of responsibility, now that August is gone. I am Lord of Bellemont, a position I never thought to hold. It will take much adjusting on my part, and a woman to care for is the last thing I need at the moment.”

  “The very idea is stressful, of course,” Joan said easily. “Oliver, I know how you feel about taking August’s place—how you dread it. But don’t you see? That is prexactly why you need a wife right now. And not just any wife—you need me.”

  “Sorry,” Oliver said. “I’m not following you.”

  Joan rose to her feet and moved around the end of the bed, to climb upon it and stretch out so that her head was near his.

  “I know you, lover,” she said, and raised a hand to rake her fingers lightly through the top of his hair. “I know you, how you think. I have not protested your conquests outside my bed. I do not resent them, or you. I know you, and so therefore I know that these dalliances are just a trait of your character. Something you need to entertain you. A hobby, if you will.”

  “You think I sleep with other women as a hobby?” he asked incredulously.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” she challenged logically. “Have you been in love with any of them?”

  “No,” he answered right away.

  She raised her eyebrows and tilted her face slightly, as if to say, So there you have it.

  “Some men drink. Some men hunt. Some men tournament. You”—she trailed a finger down his forehead, along his nose, and then tapped him lightly over his lips—“make love. Would I rather that it was exclusively with me? Of course. But a starving man does not discard the entire apple for a single bruise.”

  “Wait a moment,” Oliver said, immensely flustered. This was not going at all how he had imagined. “Are you saying that you would not expect me to remain faithful if we were to marry?”

  “Could you?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he replied.

  Joan smiled again. “Well, I do. Certainly, I could demand that you be loyal to me, and you do have a wonderful sense of honor, so I think that you would do your very best to accommodate my wishes. But I know there would come a day when you would stumble. And if I forbade it, well ... that would make you a cad and me a very unhappy wife. However, if I enter into our marriage with realistic expectances of our relationship and indulgify your occasional dalliance, then I fail to see how we would both not win.”

  “Win,” Oliver repeated.

  “Yes, of course.” She paused, looking at him expectantly. When he said nothing more, she sighed and continued. “Oliver, you must marry, eventually. Bellemont commands it. Your parents are long dead. Your brother. You are the last remaining Bellecote. You must have an heir.”

  “Perhaps I will marry one day,” Oliver conceded. “But not now.”

  Joan’s brows did lower then, in an expression of annoyance. “Yes? One day? And who do you think to marry ‘one day’?”

  The question made Oliver quite uncomfortable, and had he been able to move more freely, he would have likely squirmed.

  “I don’t know exactly,” he said defensively. “Any number of women, I suppose.”

  “Oh, really,” Joan said flatly. “Granted, Oliver, you are the most sought after man north of Oxford. But don’t you find it odd that none of the women whom you’ve known, for lack of a less rudimentary term, have tried to convince you to marry them thus far?”

  “Not really,” he replied testily. “Some of them were already married.”

  Joan laughed then, and her smile was back. “That’s exactly it, though, lover. You are known far and wide. Women love you, but only with their bodies. They don’t dare trust you with their hearts. They don’t want the humiliation of trying to tame you once they have you, to try and curb your appetites for other women. No woman in possession of good sense would want a husband who has slept with half the female population of not only England, but most of Europe, too.”

  “You do,” he tossed at her.

  She smiled. “I am realityistic. There is no fairy tale in my dreams of the future. I would trust you, because I would accept that part of you. No other woman will.”

  “You don’t know that,” Oliver said, becoming quite offended. Was he truly that bad? “But in any case, I will simply have to take my chances. We’re not getting married, Joan. And I’m sorry if you feel that I have strung you along these two years.”

  “You never promised me anything,” Joan admitted. “And I don’t believe that you don’t want to get married. You have been through a series of terrible shocks lately, and I know that it is only the strain of them that has you spouting such nonsense.”

  “It’s not nonsense. I’m very serious.”

  There was a knock at his chamber door, and then it creaked open the smallest inch.

  “Lord Bellecote? Are you prepared for me?”

  It was Cecily Foxe, and at the smooth, husky melody of her voice, the hairs on Oli
ver’s neck bristled. He wanted Joan Barleg out of his room, now, and especially off his bed in her relaxed, intimate position.

  He was more than prepared for Cecily Foxe. In fact, he felt as if he had been waiting on her for years.

  Before he could reply, Joan answered for him. “He’s quite covered, Lady Cecily. Do come in.” Joan turned her face back to Oliver as he heard the door open fully and quiet footsteps approach. “Now, I must return home to gather some things. I will be back in a pair of days. In the meantime, you rest and get well. Do everything that Lady Cecily asks of you, and we will talk of the wedding when I return.” She leaned forward, and although Oliver tried to turn his head at the last moment, her lips still landed on the side of his mouth.

  “I can come back if you’d rather,” Cecily said from the end of the bed. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, I just thought you would be in want of the draught I have for your pain.”

  “No,” Oliver began, trying to crane his neck around Joan’s head to see the woman just out of his sight.

  Once again, Joan usurped him. “It’s all right, my lady. I was just leaving.” She rolled over on the mattress and gained her feet, and while she was straightening her skirts and hair, Oliver looked at Cecily.

  She was staring back at him, gripping a small tray in her hands so that the fine skin over her delicate knuckles was white. Their eyes locked. Her face was framed with little damp tendrils of dark hair, her gown fresh. But there were little lavender crescents under her eyes, and two bright pink spots on her cheeks.

  Oliver felt his erection returning beneath the coverlet.

  “Thank you again, Lady Cecily,” Joan said, breaking the spell weaved around Oliver. Both he and Cecily turned to look at the blond woman. “I do hope he doesn’t give you too much trouble.”

  “Good day, Lady Joan,” Cecily said quietly. “Godspeed you on your journey, with hope for a safe return.”

  Joan blew Oliver a kiss from her fingertips and then left the room. He looked back to Lady Cecily, and found that she was staring at him again. He didn’t want to be rude, but he couldn’t help but return her appraisal. It was as if his eyes were drinking in the sight of her, as if he had been lying in that very bed for months upon months, only waiting for her to appear.

  “Hello, Lord Bellecote,” she finally said, and her voice was a bit raspy. She cleared her throat delicately. “How are you feeling?”

  “Wonderful,” Oliver said.

  Cecily frowned.

  “Not really, of course,” he said, and muddled together a grin for her. “I actually feel rather dreadful.”

  She gave him a sympathetic little smile, and then at last—at last!—stepped around the end of the bed toward him. Had Oliver’s arm and ribs not pained him so very much in that moment, he would have risen up on an elbow, anticipating her approach. He could feel his nostrils flaring with his shallow breaths, trying as he might to catch her scent.

  Good God! Were his brains truly addled?

  She stood there a moment, seeming nonplussed when she noticed the small table near his bedside already occupied by the wash water and linens. She looked around and behind her for a place to set down the tray, laden with items that Oliver did not recognize. Her forehead had creased into a lovely frown once again.

  “Shall I shove over a bit?” he suggested, letting his eyes flick to the sliver of mattress along his right side when she turned toward him.

  “Absolutely not,” she said, shaking her head. “I would not have you move before you have your draught unless it is unavoidable. I’ll just”—she stepped toward him, lifted the tray, then hesitated. “If you’ll forgive me reaching across you.” She gestured with the tray to the opposite side of him.

  “Of course,” he said as casually as he could.

  She gave him a tentative smile and then leaned over his stomach to place the tray on the sheet near his hip, and as she did, her movements stirred the air, filling Oliver’s nostrils with a scent—honeysuckle and sandalwood. It hit his brain like a large, spiked hammer, and all around him seemed to slow down infinitely as wild images and sounds collected in his head.

  I’m not a witch, Oliver.

  He drove himself into the darkness, over and over, a woman’s passionate, pleading whimpers below him.

  More ...

  Faster ...

  And then time regained its sanity with a loud whooshing in Oliver’s ears as Cecily Foxe stood aright once more, a small metal cup in her hand.

  “This will taste quite awful, I’m sorry. But it will ease your pain while I bind your arm.” She tentatively held the cup toward his left hand. “Can you, um ... ? Or shall I ... ?”

  “Yes, I think you’d better,” Oliver said quickly, trying to force some remorse into his voice. “I don’t trust the steadiness of my hand at the moment.” Which was actually true.

  She came closer to him, slowly, as if dragging her feet each inch along the floorboards at his bedside, her eyes trained on his mouth. She reached out with her left palm and slid it behind his head, her fingers parting his hair like cool little marble pins. Her small palm cupped the back of his skull, and she urged his head up gently.

  “Small sips,” she advised, bringing the cup to his lips. “A little at a time. ’Tis a potent brew. Too much too quickly and you will wish yourself dead in only a moment.” The cool metal touched his lower lip and Oliver opened his mouth.

  The liquid was lukewarm, and although it carried the familiar hint of strong spirits, it was indeed a vile concoction. Oliver forced himself to swallow when Cecily withdrew the cup slightly, then he gasped.

  “Gah!” he muttered, and stuck out his tongue.

  She actually giggled a bit. “I warned you. It will be worth it though, in a few moments. Here we go, once more.” She brought the cup to his mouth again.

  He took in a large mouthful.

  “Can you feel your hand at all?”

  Water dripping in the darkness.

  Can you feel your hand at all?

  The liquid halfway down Oliver’s throat did an abrupt retreat, and with an exploding breath, it exited from his mouth.

  Chapter 7

  “Oh!” Cecily shouted and stepped back quickly as Oliver Bellecote spat the majority of the draught she’d worked so hard on all over the bed.

  The man then fell into a queer sort of spasm, his breaths snorting out of his nose intermittently, his body bowing to the right, his eyes squeezed shut. He finally succumbed to several barking coughs—each followed by a shout—before letting his head fall back to the pillow. He looked immediately to her.

  “Sorry. Sorry,” he wheezed.

  “Are you all right?” Cecily asked, and tentatively stepped toward him again.

  “Yes, yes. Quite fine. Sorry about the mess.” His eyes flicked to the liquid-splattered coverlet.

  “It’s no matter.” She raised the cup, trying to slow her pounding heart. It was nerve wracking enough simply being in such close proximity to Oliver Bellecote himself, his naked chest. Then to have him nearly scare the daylights out of her by choking. Cecily had almost wet herself. “Shall we try again with what’s left?”

  “Yes, but—” His eyes narrowed and he looked at her intently. “Lady Cecily, did you ask me if I could feel my hand when we were at the ruin last night?”

  Cecily swallowed, and it felt as though she was trying to force a chicken—feathers, feet, and all—down her throat.

  “Um ... I may have. I’m not certain.”

  “I think I remember,” he said slowly, still staring at her.

  She leaned toward him without actually realizing she was doing it. “You do?” Her voice came out a tiny squeak.

  “Yes. I was ... I was lying down.”

  “And?” Cecily prompted, then held her breath.

  “And,” Oliver said slowly, “that’s all.”

  She stood upright once more, her stomach feeling quivery and sick. “Well, that’s ... that’s good, I suppose.”

  Oliver frowned and l
ooked away from her. “No, it’s not. I can’t help but feel that I’m missing something important.”

  “You’re missing the use of your right arm, certainly,” Cecily said desperately.

  “No, something that needs remembering.” His face turned toward her again, and it held a faint grin. “Although that was quite funny.”

  “Was it?” Cecily asked, taken aback. No one had ever said she was funny before.

  Oliver waved his left hand. “Never mind. It will come to me soon enough. Let’s carry on with the poisoning.”

  “It’s likely nothing, any matter.” Cecily smiled and fit the rim of the cup against Oliver’s mouth once more, trying with every shred of her will not to remember the feel of those same lips on her own, and on her neck and breasts. It was impossible, though, as she was forced to keep her eyes trained on his lips as he finished the draught.

  How many women had he kissed, made love to, that he could not even remember what had transpired between them last night?

  And did Cecily truly want him to remember?

  He had shown less than any interest in her before his accident at the Foxe Ring. He’d never even glanced her way. And when he had been forced to acknowledge her at the feast, it had been only in jest. He was going to marry Joan Barleg. Should their affair come out, it would hurt Joan terribly and ruin Cecily’s reputation. It might even damage her standing at the convent. She would lose the respect of Fallstowe’s folk, and perhaps even of kind Father Perry, her mentor and dear friend.

  And what would Sybilla—Alys—say should they find out? Would they think ill of her? Call her out for the liar that she was? Cecily knew her role in the family—she had known it since she was a young girl, and its duties did not include sleeping with a notorious womanizer who just happened to be betrothed.

  If he never remembered, though ... well, then it would be as if it never happened. That was better for everyone involved.

  Wasn’t it?

  “Thank you,” Oliver rasped as she withdrew the empty cup and set it aside. “I think.”