To Seduce A Scoundrel

by Darcy Burke

  Ambrose didn’t know where any of these chambers were located, but he was aware of a room upstairs filled with a variety of props, including women’s gowns. He only prayed the chamber wasn’t currently in use.

  He took Philippa’s hand as she clasped her bodice to her chest once more and led her up the back stairs. He paused on the landing at the top of the stairs. “What happened to your mask?”

  “I dropped it. Out in the alley.” She glanced away.

  Ambrose wanted to reassure her. “It’s all right. If we see someone, I’ll find a way to shield your identity.”

  She looked up at him. Her eyes were hooded but held a touch of spark. “Am I to expect another kiss?”

  Her tone was light, not derisive or accusatory. This had to be the worst thing that had ever happened to her and she hadn’t devolved into a hysterical fit. Quite the contrary. He was impressed. And perhaps even a bit charmed.

  While kissing her had been quite pleasurable, he was in no position to indulge such fancy, and definitely not with a proper miss like her. Never with an innocent like her. “I’m certain we can avoid another kiss.”

  He opened a door and led her into a corridor. He took a moment to get his bearing. He wasn’t precisely sure where the prop room was located, but it was rumored to be at the back of the house in the western wing. He turned left and motioned for her to follow. He worried she was still a bit too pale.

  Sconces flickered at intervals along the corridor, casting long shadows over the rich cobalt-colored carpet running down the center. A moan floated on the air from behind a closed door. Ambrose glanced back at Philippa who stared at the door. Color flooded her cheeks.

  The corridor branched right and left. Ambrose went left and immediately thrust Philippa against the wall as a couple walked toward them. He pressed against her to shield her from view. “Keep your head down,” he murmured.

  Ambrose turned his head toward the wall, but not before the gentleman, Viscount Heresford, noted him. Heresford gave a half smile and inclined his head before continuing on.

  Philippa rested her cheek against his chest, and though it was part of keeping her identity secret, the motion was sweet and trusting. “You could’ve kissed me again,” she said softly. “It was nice, actually.”

  Ambrose couldn’t let her think he—or his kisses—were nice. He stepped back abruptly and turned. At the end of the corridor was a large, curved alcove with a door. He walked toward it without a word, knowing she’d follow.

  Two chaises sat against the walls of the alcove—the famed waiting area for those who wanted to use the prop room. Ambrose slowed and quietly said, “There could be someone inside, in which case we’ll have to wait.”

  “Why?”

  There were many questions in that one word and he wasn’t sure which one she wanted answered, so he gave her just the information he thought she needed. “That room contains dresses.”

  He tried the door handle but it was locked. A bell pull dangled to the left. Ambrose wasted no time in tugging it, though he was unsure what the result might be.

  Behind them, a door—completely hidden in the wall—scratched open. A massively built footman stepped out. “My lord? Do you wish to watch?”

  “No. And we don’t want to be watched either.” He glanced at Philippa, but her head was cast down, her gaze fixed on the carpet. “We’re waiting for our turn.”

  The footman gave a quick nod. “The current occupants are just finishing up.”

  “Do you have a mask we might use?” Ambrose asked.

  “There are masks in the room, my lord.”

  “Thank you,” Ambrose said, inclining his head in dismissal. The footman betrayed no reaction to Philippa’s torn and bloodied gown. He likely ignored just about everything he witnessed at Lockwood House. Which was doubly good since Philippa wasn’t masked.

  She turned and sat on one of the chaises, keeping her head bent. Ambrose sat beside her, careful not to get too close. “You should turn away from the door.” She did as he instructed. “Just a bit further, toward the wall almost. Yes, that’s it.”

  “He called you ‘my lord.’ Does he know who you are?”

  Ambrose had also noticed that, but couldn’t imagine how the footman might recognize them. “I can’t fathom how. He probably addresses everyone that way.”

  “Yes, though so far it seems as if only retainers have seen me. Presumably they have no idea who I am.”

  He noted the hint of hope in her tone. “I’m sure you’re right. Just keep your face averted when the occupants leave the room.”

  They were quiet a moment and then Ambrose couldn’t contain his regret another moment. “I’m sorry about what happened.” The apology was wholly inadequate, but it was all he had.

  She kept her face toward the wall, but her eyes darted a glance at him. “Why was that Jagger person looking for you? Are you really the ‘Vicious Viscount’?”

  A ridiculous moniker given to him when he’d been a prizefighter in another life. “It’s an old nickname.”

  “And you prefer not to discuss it?”

  His lips quirked up. Her shrewd assessment immediately vaulted her in his opinion. “Just so.”

  Besides, he’d no idea who Jagger was. But if he knew Ambrose as the Vicious Viscount, whatever he wanted had to do with prizefighting.

  She kept her gaze fixed on the wall. “If you won’t tell me about that, explain what the footman meant by ‘occupants.’ What are they doing in there?”

  Another question he’d rather ignore, but she deserved some semblance of truth after what she’d endured. “Similar to what we saw downstairs.”

  She turned her head to look at him, her eyes wide. “A woman on a table?”

  “More like the other room. With the couples.”

  “Oh.” Her cheeks flared red before she turned back around. She allowed silence to root and grow for a few minutes before asking, “How do people come to be here? At this party, I mean.”

  “Special invitations.”

  “So my mother was invited.”

  “Or her escort. Gentlemen are allowed to bring guests.”

  “Why were you invited?” She turned her head to look at him and the sconce above them highlighted the unique color of her eyes, a warm golden brown, which he likened to a freshly drawn ale. A single curl feathered against the base of her neck, just above her collarbone, inviting him to stroke its softness. Or, better yet, he could run his fingers along her lustrous skin, which was the color of thick, decadent cream. The kind he loved to lick from the knife after spreading it atop his scone.

  Ambrose averted his gaze. For a host of reasons, it wouldn’t do to indulge a physical reaction to her, not the least of which was her status as a respectable unmarried young lady and his as a worthless scoundrel.

  “Another question you don’t want to answer?” she asked.

  He gave her a lop-sided, rakish smile. “You know me, I’m the type who’s invited to these sorts of parties.”

  “And I see you attend. But are you the type who participates?”

  Ambrose was surprised by the edge of doubt in her tone. He’d planned to participate—at some point—but a five-year-long vow of celibacy was difficult to put aside. Thankfully the door opened, interrupting further discussion on the topic.

  She quickly turned back toward the wall as the couple—nay, trio—departed the room. A man and woman arm in arm followed by a heavy-set man whose florid cheeks were just discernable under the edge of his mask.

  Once they had exited the alcove, Ambrose jumped up. “Come.”

  They went into the room and he locked the door behind them. Three black-clad maids cleaned the room in silence. They redressed the bed, fluffed pillows on the various pieces of furniture strewn about, and one busily reorganized the unseen contents of an armoire.

  Philippa stood with her back to them. Ambrose let go of her hand. “Almost there,” he said.

  When he turned back to the room, the maids were gone. Whateve
r exit they’d used was well hidden. It was as if they’d never been there.

  Ambrose went to the armoire, certain he’d find the gowns he sought. Instead, an array of… instruments greeted him. Best if Philippa didn’t see them. He slammed the doors shut and turned abruptly. She’d followed him.

  “What was all that?”

  “Nothing we care about. Ah, there’s another armoire over there in the corner.”

  They skirted the oversized bed draped in rich purple silk. An image of Philippa lying amongst the pile of opulent pillows flashed in his mind. A lovely thought, but one he would never indulge.

  He opened the next armoire much more carefully, peeking at its contents before throwing the door wide. Gowns and other garments. He allowed himself to relax for just a moment.

  Philippa stopped next to him. He fingered a deep, rust-colored silk and held the skirt out for her perusal.

  She cocked her head at him and narrowed her eyes. “Really?”

  Foolishly he realized the color resembled the dried blood on her skirt. Idiot.

  She reached for a dark yellow piped with royal blue. He helped her pull it out and she held the gown to her frame.

  “Too long,” he said.

  She cast it aside while he pulled a vivid rose with cream-colored flounces at the hem. She made a face—clearly she didn’t like it—and he thrust the garment back into the armoire.

  She ran her fingers along the sleeves of several gowns and then stopped abruptly. “This.” She removed a dark emerald velvet and laid it on the bed. She looked up at him dubiously. “You’ll have to help me with my dress.” She turned her back, but not before he caught bright spots of color on her cheeks.

  She was beautiful and smelled of lilac and honey. Fresh, sweet, unspoiled. His lust roared strong once more. The irony of his powerful response—finally—with a young miss like her nearly made him laugh.

  She looked over her shoulder, perhaps sensing his hesitation. “Pretend I’m your sister.”

  “I don’t have a sister. Though I do have an aunt in Sussex.”

  “She’ll do.” Philippa’s shoulders were tense, but her tone was light. She really was trying her best to get through this series of disasters, and he admired her for that.

  Reluctantly, Ambrose lifted his hands and unhooked the back of her gown. She turned her face away and tipped her head slightly down. It was a struggle to keep his fingers from brushing her neck as he started, but he managed not to touch her. As he worked to open the gown, his knuckles brushed her stays, but he was fortunate not to come into contact with her skin. The dress gapped open and then fell to her waist. She wriggled a bit and it fell to the floor. Ambrose pivoted away.

  While sounds of rustling stirred parts of his body better left ignored, he went in search of a replacement mask for her and hopefully one for himself. For all that he deserved his black reputation, he didn’t particularly like walking around Lockwood House with his face exposed.

  First he tried the drawers in the armoire. Fripperies and undergarments. He turned to decide where next to look and caught sight of her pulling the green velvet up her body, shielding her partially-clad form from his view.

  She stood with her back to him. “Can you fasten the gown?”

  It was more time-consuming to dress her than undress her, which gave him more time to contemplate her scent and her softness. Dangerous ground. He hurried at his task, which naturally only served to make the ordeal take longer. Finally, she was clothed, but when she turned to face him, any sense of relief fled.

  The dark green velvet draped her form beautifully, as if it had been crafted just for her. The neckline was low, accentuating the creaminess of her skin and the beckoning valley between her breasts. Breasts that were held up and displayed to painful perfection—painful to him, anyway.

  “Is it all right?” An honest question, devoid of guile, asked by a young woman who’d seen far more than she ought this night.

  It was more than all right. “You’ll do. Now, let us find masks.”

  “What about that?” she pointed a slippered toe at her discarded gown.

  “Ah, yes, another bit of fuel for the fire.” He grabbed the poker and stirred the coals in the fireplace.

  “If we toss the entire thing on the coals, it might douse the fire. Perhaps we should tear it into smaller pieces?”

  “What a resourceful girl you’re proving to be.” He smiled at her, enjoying her company despite the absurdity of the entire evening.

  After returning the poker to its stand, he plucked up the garment, grasped the already ripped bodice, and rent it from neckline to hem down the front and again down the back. He dropped one half while he worked to get the other into smaller pieces. It surprised him a little when she picked up the discarded half and viciously ripped the sleeve off and threw it atop the glowing coals.

  She caught him watching her and bent her head to her task. “I never liked this dress. My mother chose the pattern and the color.” She continued pulling at the fabric, having a more difficult time ripping through it than he did, so when he was finished with his half, he took over hers. She released the tattered silk with a nod. “Thank you for helping me tonight.”

  He chuckled darkly. “Is that what you call it?”

  She lightly touched his arm. “Yes. You gave me a mask and tried to help me escape. It’s not your fault we were accosted.”

  “Save your appreciation for when I actually get you out of here.” He tossed the last of the dress atop the coals. The first pieces had caught, and flames now licked at the other remnants. He handed her the poker. “Stir that while I look for masks.”

  He started with a small dresser next to the bed. It was filled with an array of cravats, scarves, and long lengths of silk, all of which were suitable for binding. He was immediately grateful she was occupied with the fire.

  The next drawer held something mask-like. He held it up.

  “Is that a blindfold?” she asked. “Do they play parlor games in here?”

  He grinned at her naïveté, glad that she’d no idea. Her innocence—and her curiosity—were refreshing. He quickly tucked it back into the drawer. “Not exactly, no. Someday your husband can explain it to you.”

  “I see.” She returned her attention to the fire, a bit of color again rushing to her cheeks. So sweet.

  He pulled another piece of black silk from the drawer, but pivoted his body so she wouldn’t be able to see it as he investigated its usefulness. It was a hood designed to completely cover a person’s head with cutouts for the eyes, nose, and mouth. He turned toward her. “I’ve found something that will work.” He handed it to her and took over the poker, stabbing the last bits of fabric into the fire.

  “Why, it looks like a hangman’s hood.” She glanced at him with a touch of humor in her gaze. “Not that I’ve actually been to a hanging. Did you find something for you?”

  “Not yet.” He stirred the embers of her dress and then replaced the poker in the stand.

  She stared into the fire. “My mother would hate to see what happened to that gown,” she noted, and not without a bit of scorn. “And she’d detest this one.” She smoothed her hands over the emerald velvet, drawing his attention to the curve of her hip.

  He looked away and was about to continue his search for a mask when the door flew open and disaster fell upon them. Again.

  Chapter Three

  PHILLIPA froze in mid-stride as the hulking footman who’d earlier bade them wait their turn entered the room. And he was not alone. Quickly, she pulled the hood over her head and hurried close to Sevrin’s side.

  Sevrin turned to face the intruder, stepping just a bit in front of her. He’d spent the entire evening trying to keep her out of harm’s way, yet harm seemed destined to find them.

  “My lord, this gentleman insists it’s his turn for the room.” The footman indicated a tall, slender man. He seemed vaguely familiar, but then her vision was trying to adjust through the tiny eyeholes.

  “Ou
r apologies,” Sevrin said.

  “I should hope so,” a dark, feminine voice said.

  Philippa sucked in her breath. There was no mistaking the haughty tone of her mother.

  The tall man slipped his hand around a woman’s waist—Philippa’s mother’s waist. She’d traded her peacock blue gown for a vivid scarlet. The man had to be Booth-Barrows. Another couple stood behind them. Good Lord, what was her mother going to do in here? Philippa really didn’t want to know. She just wanted to leave. Now.

  She wound her fingers through Sevrin’s and gave his hand a tug.

  “We were just leaving. Again, my apologies.” Sevrin walked with her toward the door.

  A feminine voice—not Mother’s, thank goodness—said, “Why don’t you stay, Lord Sevrin. And I suppose your little friend can too.”

  Philippa nearly gagged.

  “How charming of you to invite us, but I’m afraid we have another engagement.” His fingers squeezed into hers as he rushed her from the room.

  “Lord Sevrin, wait.” Her mother. Fabric rustled as her mother perhaps approached them in the alcove. Philippa daren’t turn around to look. “Your friend seems familiar. Is she your personal guest or one of Lockwood’s?”

  Philippa froze, her belly churning until she was afraid she’d cast her accounts right into the center of the alcove outside the room.

  Sevrin paused and guided her in front of him. Then she felt him pivot. She heard the amusement in his voice and gave him credit for playing his part so well. “Forgive me if I decline to answer your question as the purpose of Lockwood House is to provide anonymity for those who wish it.” His voice dropped to a bare whisper. “Isn’t that right, Lady Herrick?”

  Her mother gasped softly. “How did you know?”

  “Your secrets are safe with me,” he said quietly. “Enjoy your evening.”

  His arm came around Philippa’s waist and he swept her away down the corridor. The door to the prop room closed behind them.

  He led her to the right—back the way they’d come earlier—and then left toward what she thought was the front of the house. Philippa stopped and leaned against the wall, allowing her anxiety to pulse out of her in deep, gasping breaths. She pulled off her mask, needing a greater supply of air.