Never Love a Scoundrel

by Darcy Burke

  He saw Miss Cheswick in the corner. Perhaps she could provide some insight as to what the hell Lydia was doing. “Miss Cheswick, it’s a pleasure to see you here.”

  She smiled. “Lord Lockwood, good evening.”

  “Propping up the corner, I see. Do you enjoy attending these events?”

  “I know it seems I mustn’t, but I do. I’m more of an observer, and that suits me fine. Do you enjoy attending these events? Tell me,” her voice lowered dramatically, “are your parties more entertaining?”

  He laughed softly, liking Miss Cheswick. “Naturally. But never say I told you so. Why isn’t Lady Lydia keeping you company?”

  Miss Cheswick pressed her lips together and wrinkled her nose. “She’s just being Lydia. She really is harmless.” The look she gave him was serious, and perhaps a bit pleading. She wanted him to believe what she said.

  The words he’d overheard stirred his anger once more. “Harmless? I’m certain she’s harmed plenty of people. Isn’t she a gossiping viper just like her aunt?”

  Miss Cheswick flinched, and he wished he’d worded things differently. “She isn’t really. If you knew her as I do, you’d see that. But then no one knows her as I do,” she finished sadly.

  “Then help me know her.” He lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned toward Miss Cheswick. “When the music starts, send her to the portrait gallery.”

  “That’s hardly appropriate,” Miss Cheswick said, sounding scandalized.

  “Perhaps not, but I suspect you’ll do it anyway.” He sent her a challenging look, hoping that Miss Cheswick possessed the rebellious spirit he thought she did.

  Miss Cheswick shook her head. “I don’t know if she’ll come.”

  He gently pressed his fingers to her forearm. “Please ensure that she does.”

  Miss Cheswick nodded. He strode away from her, meandering through the drawing room into a smaller room next door where people still mingled. He moved into another room and then at last came to a corridor that led to the portrait gallery where he squandered the next half hour staring at paintings. He paced near the doorway. When he heard the strains of the music start up, he paused. She wasn’t coming.

  He leaned against the wall and laid his head back against the plaster. A moment later he heard the whoosh of skirts before a flash of amber entered beside him. He reached out and snatched her hand, spinning her around so that she came to face him. But he pulled harder than he intended—or maybe she was just lighter than he anticipated—and she connected with his chest.

  Her brown eyes were wide as she stared up at him. He wrapped his arm around her waist and continued holding her hand.

  He meant to assault her with questions and demand she give him the truth, but he was speechless at the look of fear in her eyes. He’d never frightened her before. What had changed in the hours since he’d seen her last?

  Her upturned face was pale and beautiful in the soft light of the gallery. “I shouldn’t have come,” she whispered, pulling back.

  He held her close, tightening his grip around her waist. “Don’t go. I won’t let you. Not yet.” Letting go of her hand, he stroked his thumb along her jaw. She flinched. “What’s wrong? Did something happen this afternoon after you left Lockwood House?”

  She hesitated the barest fraction before she shook her head. He didn’t believe her. In fact, now he knew something had occurred. “Tell me what happened this afternoon.”

  “Nothing,” she said, but the response came too quickly and with a higher pitch that verified she was lying.

  He moved his thumb back, applying a bit more pressure and this time she blinked and pulled away. He gently held her chin and tipped her head to the side and saw a faint red blemish, though it was carefully masked with a cosmetic. Fury shot through him. “What is this?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Stop saying that,” he said more sharply than he intended, but anger was swirling inside him. “Tell me how this happened.” He looked into her eyes. “And don’t lie.”

  She swallowed and his eye was drawn to the gentle column of her throat. “Please, don’t ask me.” The words came out ragged.

  He wouldn’t force her. She’d been through enough today. “Was this because you came to see me?” Rage fought against the overwhelming tenderness he felt for the woman in his arms. He’d never been assaulted with such an urge to protect someone other than his mother, who’d always seemed powerless. But Lydia wasn’t the same. She was strong, and he wanted her to remain that way.

  “I should go,” she whispered, sounding hollow and broken.

  Yes, she should. But he had to know. “If your aunt did this to you, I demand you tell me. I can’t—”

  She wrenched her head back from his touch. “You can’t what? You don’t have any say. Please, just let me go.”

  He cupped the back of her head and drew her mouth to his. He longed to free her mind from this moment, to give her a sense of joy, of bliss. And maybe he wanted that for himself, too.

  He moved his lips over hers. She didn’t resist, but she didn’t kiss him back. He tilted his head and massaged her waist, which served to bring her more firmly against him. She felt like heaven, her body curving into his with an innocence that was as heady as lust. No, headier.

  She’d never been kissed before. He’d bet Lockwood House on it. Her mouth relaxed against his, and he ran his tongue along the edge of her lips. She gasped, and he took the opportunity to slip inside her wet heat.

  Her hands came up against his chest. He froze for the barest moment, afraid she meant to push away. But then her fingers tangled into his lapel and cravat as if she were hanging on for her life. Perhaps she was.

  His fingers dug into the back of her skull as he deepened the kiss. He opened his mouth wider and she followed suit, inviting him to show her what to do. Tentatively, her tongue brushed against his. He nearly groaned with the sweet agony of it. His cock hardened between them, and he hoped she wouldn’t cringe. Christ, if anyone saw him now—seducing an innocent—he’d never recover.

  He ought to stop. Not for his sake, but for hers.

  Except her hand crept over his collar and cradled the side of his neck. It would be so much better without her bloody gloves on, but he would take what he could get. Her touch was hesitant, but bold. Her hand moved to the back of his neck and copied what he was doing to her, holding him to her as if she never wanted to let go.

  He stroked his tongue more insistently in her mouth as his desire climbed. He had to stop soon, but she felt so damned good. Vaguely he remembered why he’d wanted her to come here. And it hadn’t been to kiss her. At least not consciously. He pulled back to look at her, but her eyes were still closed.

  “Lydia,” he said, his voice blackened with lust. “Look at me.”

  She opened her eyes. They were glazed, pleasured. His cock grew.

  “I’m going to protect you from her.”

  “You can’t. It doesn’t matter. Just . . . I don’t want to talk about it. Can’t you just kiss me again?” She tugged on his head.

  He could do more than that.

  He spun her around until her back was against the wall. Her eyes flared in surprise, and she inhaled sharply. He smiled wickedly. “I’d be happy to. Shall it be a chaste kiss here?” He brushed his lips against her cheek and felt her shiver.

  “Or perhaps here?” He trailed his lips along her jaw and pressed his mouth to the underside of her chin.

  She cast her head back against the wall, which elongated her porcelain neck in unparalleled elegance.

  “No, I think here.” He dropped kisses down her neck and along the edge of her collarbone. He opened his mouth against her skin and licked her flesh. She jerked. He closed his lips on her and gently suckled, careful not to leave a mark.

  She moaned softly and tangled her fingers in his hair.

  He kept his right hand on her waist and splayed his left over her shoulder. She arched her head back farther and pressed herself up into his mouth, silently beg
ging for more. With Herculean effort, he slid his mouth back along her collarbone and up her neck.

  “I think I might like your mouth best.” Then his lips were on hers, but this time she met him with naked fervor. Her hands clutched at him, holding him hostage to her burgeoning desire. Her mouth opened and she angled her head to receive his intrusion, then thrust her tongue out to make her own conquest.

  He pressed against her, finding that divine cleft between her thighs in which to nestle his cock. Visions of her skirts pushed up to her waist and her bare flesh spread to his hungry gaze nearly drove him mad. He rotated his hips in mindless need.

  She gasped into his mouth again, but didn’t push him away. He dragged his hand down the front of her gown and cupped her breast. She was firm and soft, delightfully round. His fingers pulled on her through the fabric of her gown, working their way to the tip.

  Voices broke into his sexual haze.

  He stopped kissing her, but didn’t pull away. She heard the voices too, because her panicked gaze found his. He shook his head and whispered, “Shhh,” against her mouth.

  Her eyes were full of fear.

  “The gallery. No one will be in there,” came a tittering feminine voice.

  “Lead the way,” said her male companion.

  Lydia’s eyes widened further. Jason reluctantly withdrew his hand from her spectacular breast and flattened his palm against the wall above her head. He spoke as quietly and urgently as possible. “They’re coming from your left. They’ll likely enter through the door you just came in. We’re going to exit through the other door to your right. We must time it right. Move as silently as you can. Nod if you understand.”

  She nodded. He felt her heart thundering against his chest. He clasped her hand, gave her an encouraging stare, and then—because he couldn’t resist—he kissed her quickly.

  Keeping his tread light, he pulled her to the other door and peered around the jamb. The couple was tangled in an embrace in the adjoining chamber. He watched and waited.

  Lydia’s hand gripped his tightly. He felt a slight tremor in her frame.

  The couple moved. Just as they passed through the doorway, he pulled Lydia out of the gallery. He didn’t pause, but kept going through to a sitting room. They were on the opposite side of the house from the ballroom, where the musicale was going on. He didn’t want to take her there yet. She needed to regain her composure.

  “Do you know where the retiring room is?” he asked.

  She stared at him blankly, as if she didn’t understand the question. Then she blinked. “There’s a small sitting room near the—”

  “I don’t care where. Go there now. Don’t come to the musicale for ten minutes. Plead a headache and go home.”

  She nodded.

  He squeezed her hand. “You’ll be fine. Go.”

  After a last lingering look, she pivoted without a word and left. He watched her amber skirts swing against the doorway as she exited and quashed the urge to go after her, sweep her into his arms, and spirit her away to Lockwood House like the blackguard he was.

  But no, he’d let her go home to that bitch who’d marked her face. And if that didn’t make him a blackguard, what did?

  Chapter Eleven

  WHEN LYDIA arrived in the retiring room, she was greeted by a small group of women who were just a bit older than herself. All married, they were avoiding the musicale so they could sit in here and gossip. Their eyes lit when Lydia entered, but she gave them a weak smile and went directly behind a screen for privacy.

  She prepared to tune them out but then distinctly heard the words “Lady Aldridge” and “death.” Her ears pricked up.

  “So sad,” one woman said.

  “But to take your own life?” this woman sounded offended. “The death of her husband is tragic, horrific even, given the circumstances, but suicide is such an ungodly act.”

  Suicide? How? Lydia wanted to ask, but the new and improved version of herself bade her to keep her mouth shut.

  “I can’t imagine they’ll have a funeral. What a shame. I quite liked her.”

  Another woman nodded. “She had a tremendous eye for fashion.”

  “Well, at least she had the grace to simply overdose on laudanum,” said the third woman, an acerbic-tongued young baroness. “I daresay that’s the tidiest way to do it.”

  Lydia had heard quite enough and was actually a little nauseated by what she’d overheard. She left the retiring room and quietly returned to the ballroom where the musicale was still going on. Feeling nearly as maudlin as when she’d arrived that evening, she took up a position near the wall behind the rows of chairs that were set up.

  But then she caught sight of Jason staring at her from the other end of the row. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes boring into her with seductive intensity. Her thoughts immediately veered from melancholy to libidinous.

  Jason?

  Apparently she couldn’t think of him as “Lockwood” anymore. He’d become a friend. No, not quite that. He’d become something far more dangerous.

  She looked away from him, lest her face heat to a noticeable degree. It was bad enough that the rest of her was on fire thinking of his mouth on her flesh, his hand covering her breast, his thighs nestled against hers.

  Think of something else.

  His party. She could easily help him plan the event via letter as her aunt had decreed, but it wouldn’t be as much fun. Especially since she wouldn’t be seeing him, which meant no opportunity for more kissing. Maybe they could meet secretly. They could take care of the arrangements in person then and she could kiss him again. Perhaps he’d touch her breast, even remove her gown. There was no telling what they might end up doing. Goodness, with one embrace he’d turned her into a wanton.

  Think of something else!

  Back to the party. She’d completely forgotten to talk to him about the fact that they’d have to plan it via letter. But then how could she? Their mouths had been rather occupied.

  Oh, devil take it, she couldn’t escape the recollection of his devastating embrace. It crowded every corner of her mind. She burned to finish what he’d started. If they hadn’t been interrupted, perhaps they’d be doing just that.

  Her gaze drifted to Jason’s. He was still staring at her. Overwhelmed, she turned and left the ballroom again and stopped short when she nearly ran into his half brother.

  “Mr. Locke,” she gasped.

  He reached out and lightly touched her elbows to steady her. “Lady Lydia, you look flushed. Are you all right? May I take you for a turn on the terrace?” He let her go and offered his arm.

  The music droned on behind her. She didn’t want to go back in, not when the only entertainment was battling her attraction to Jason. “Yes, thank you.” She linked her arm through his, and he led her back through the drawing room.

  She looked askance at him and thought that while he possessed the unscarred face, he was somehow the lesser for it. She suddenly recalled that he was a friend of Lady Aldridge’s. “Please accept my condolences regarding Lady Aldridge. Such a sad end, and after tragedy already struck the poor woman.”

  He peered at her sideways. “You already heard?”

  She smiled wryly. “This is London, Mr. Locke. You’re new to town, so perhaps you don’t understand how quickly information moves.”

  “There are, it seems, few secrets.”

  “There are plenty. The challenge is in uncovering them.” Which Aunt Margaret expected Lydia to do with him. But she couldn’t do it. Did his relationship with Lady Aldridge really matter, particularly now that she was dead?

  “And is that your goal with me?” He gave her a sidelong glance as he guided her out onto the terrace.

  “No, my goal with you is to help you and your brother reconcile.” At his startled expression she said, “That is what you want, isn’t it?”

  His answer was a long time coming. “It is.”

  “You don’t sound certain.” She surveyed the terrace, illumin
ated with several lamps. There was no one out here—the footman stationed just inside the drawing room door didn’t qualify.

  “I’d hoped Jason and I could leave the past, well, in the past. But it seems we cannot.”

  She stopped and turned toward him, removing her arm from his. “You’ve spoken to him?” She’d failed to arrange a meeting as Locke has requested, but it seemed he’d found his own way.

  “I went to one of his parties at Lockwood House, and we . . . talked.”

  They had? Jason hadn’t mentioned it. But why would he? He made no secret about not liking Locke—at least he hadn’t to her. She recalled the tension in him when they’d come face-to-face at the Whitmore Ball and realized she’d avoided discussing Locke, beyond suggesting Jason invite him to his soirée. For the first time, she was overly sensitive to another person’s feelings.

  She scrutinized Locke’s profile. “Did you achieve what you wanted?”

  He faced the dark garden, his gaze sweeping over a landscape they couldn’t see. “Not really. It didn’t go well.”

  She was dying to ask for specifics, but doubted he would share them. Furthermore, she was doing her level best to keep her tongue in check. It wasn’t easy. “I didn’t notice any more scars, so it can’t have gone too badly.”

  He pivoted toward her and flashed a smile. “Perhaps they’re hidden.”

  Lydia drew back, suddenly wanting to seek Jason out and check him for injuries.

  Locke’s gaze reflected mild surprise. “I think your opinion of my brother may have elevated since our last meeting. How curious.” He turned back toward the garden. “Don’t worry, he’s fine.”

  She was relieved, but wasn’t completely uncaring when it came to the man before her. “Are you all right as well?”

  “You needn’t worry. It was a tussle between brothers.”

  If they were still fighting, things couldn’t be going very well. However, she’d managed to persuade Jason to invite Locke to his party. Perhaps she could help them resolve their differences. “Will you tell me why he hates you? And before you accuse me of trying to obtain gossip, that is not my purpose. I agreed to help you—secretly—and I will. But I need to know more.”