To Seduce A Scoundrel

by Darcy Burke

  “Good. I’ll join you there a few days before the fight. Now, when am I to meet this Ackley?”

  They’d skipped their training last night. Ackley had come to watch the prizefight, and they were scheduled to discuss it—reviewing technique and strategy—that evening. “He’s coming here tonight if you’d care to join us.”

  “I would. Thank you.” He regarded Ambrose warily. “Am I always going to feel as if you’re just a breath away from pummeling me into oblivion?”

  “Probably.”

  “And will you?”

  Ambrose smiled slowly, menacingly. “Probably.”

  “Ah, excellent. Just so I know. Perhaps you should train me as well.”

  Ambrose’s smile faded, and he glared at the criminal.

  Jagger arched a dark brow. “Too much? Right. See you tonight, then.” He turned and left.

  Ambrose sank into one of the stuffed chairs situated by the cold fireplace. His ribs ached. His face and head pounded. His knuckles were on fire. But all of it paled next to the pain he’d felt when Philippa had interrogated him last night.

  She’d somehow learned the truth—that he’d killed his brother. She may not know the details, that he hadn’t done it in a duel, but his actions had absolutely caused Nigel’s demise. The look in her eyes—disbelief, followed by horror, and then regret—had dredged up the old emotions so that he’d barely slept. She hadn’t had to say it: if only he hadn’t behaved so abominably, his life could be so different.

  But he had done those things. He’d seduced his brother’s fiancée and driven Nigel to his death. He was everything people said and more.

  Another knock on his door drew him from his pathetic reverie.

  He couldn’t be bothered to get up. “Enter.”

  The door pushed open, and Saxton stepped inside. “You’re dressed.”

  “I’m not a complete invalid.”

  “You looked as if you would be. I’m glad to see you’re well.” Saxton’s perusal was followed by a look of pure sympathy. “Or rather, well enough.”

  He didn’t want Saxton’s pity. He accepted everything that happened to him—especially a good beating—as just and right. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be at a house party preserving Philippa’s social standing?”

  Saxton’s glanced away, stirring Ambrose’s concern. “That’s partly why I’m here. There’s still a bit of speculation.”

  Ambrose gripped the arms of his chair, but let go as his knuckles burned in protest. “Did someone see her at the fight?”

  “Not that I can tell, but Finchley has made it widely known that your mystery woman was there. He’s also noted that Philippa was not in attendance at Benfield’s soiree last night.”

  He wanted to kill Finchley and may just dredge up the necessary capacity to do it. “Neither was half of your father’s bloody house party given the lot that showed up in Dirty Lane.”

  Saxton’s gaze turned dark. “This isn’t anything to make light of.”

  “I’m sure as hell not. What are you doing to fix this?”

  “Since when did I become your housekeeper? Clean up your own goddamned messes.” Saxton’s pale blue eyes flashed, but then he exhaled and seemed to rein in his temper. He went to stand behind one of the other stuffed chairs and drummed his fingers on the top. “As it happens, I have an idea.”

  Of course he did. Saxton was rather good at managing things. He’d been quite successful at keeping the true nature of his wife’s birth—she was the daughter of a notorious courtesan—completely unknown. “Tell me.”

  “You’ll need to come to Benfield—the sooner the better.”

  “I’m in no condition to travel. At least not today.”

  “Come tomorrow then. And you’ll need to bring a guest. Someone who looks enough like Philippa to fool people into believing she’s your mystery woman.”

  Ambrose understood Saxton’s plan and had just one quibble. “And where am I to find such a woman? Stop by Covent Garden at a courtesan stall?”

  Saxton gave him a suffering glare before speaking. “There’s a demimondaine I know. I’ll send her a note explaining the circumstances—that she’s to pretend to be your mistress—and ask her to be ready to travel to Benfield tomorrow morning.”

  Ambrose couldn’t keep from grinning. “You are my housekeeper.”

  Saxton arched a brow, his fingers stilling. “Someone has to be.”

  “Won’t everyone be scandalized I’ve brought a courtesan to their precious house party?”

  “Not as scandalized as if they found out you were at Lockwood House with Philippa.”

  True enough. Why couldn’t this threat just die? “You think this will work?” Ambrose asked.

  “It could. It will certainly put an end to the speculation and the wagers.”

  “So would beating the shit out of Finchley and a few others, but I suppose that’s a bad idea.”

  Saxton’s mouth curved up. “Tempting as it is, I doubt your pummeling would end anything except Finchley’s enjoyment of the party. However, the situation is also helped by Philippa’s courtship with Allred. Things are progressing quickly. In fact, the rumor is that he may propose to her today.”

  Ambrose was glad he was sitting because this information came like a blow to his gut. Which was asinine since he’d all but pushed her into Allred’s arms. God, had she kissed him yet? Ambrose already cursed his loss.

  Saxton sat in the chair next to his. “You care for her.”

  This was a dangerous conversation, and one he didn’t want to have. “Of course, but not in the way you think.”

  “I’m not blind. Furthermore, I saw the way she was with you. She clearly cares for you too—I can only imagine the depth of your acquaintance.” Saxton’s unspoken question hung in the air. “Perhaps you should marry her.”

  Ambrose wouldn’t bother denying their mutual attraction. He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t think of her without wanting to end his five-year sexual drought by burying himself between her thighs. “I can’t.”

  “Of course you can. I didn’t think I could marry Olivia either, but some friends of mine,” Saxton gave him a pointed stare, “convinced me otherwise.” Like quicksilver, his eyes turned frigid. “Don’t be a fool.”

  He’d be a fool—or more accurately a prick—if he married her. She deserved a husband who would love and cherish her, not a selfish brute who took what he wanted and thought nothing of the consequences. And who didn’t know the first thing about love.

  “I can’t marry her. Don’t speak of it again.” Ambrose stood up from his chair with surprising ease. Guilt, it seemed, was a useful healing tonic.

  Philippa caught up to Allred who’d beat her handily in their impromptu race.

  He grinned at her. “You’re an excellent seat, Lady Philippa. I’d heard such, but given your gender, I had to reserve judgment until I saw your skill for myself.”

  Allred occasionally made similar comments regarding womanhood, insinuating frailty or lesser ability. Though they pricked Philippa’s nerves, he said them with an air of such charming ignorance that she permitted herself to overlook them.

  She inhaled the fresh spring air and smiled, exhilarated by their ride on such a fine day. It was almost enough to make her forget about last night’s events. Almost.

  Saxton had planned things perfectly for her return. He’d secreted her up the back stairs and this morning she’d been flanked by Lady Saxton and Saxton’s sister, Lady Miranda Foxcroft, who’d testified to her presence at Benfield the previous night. The ruse had worked as several people had asked if she was feeling better. No one even suggested she’d left Benfield, at least not that she had heard, but then the bulk of the conversation had been focused on Ambrose’s prizefight.

  The men were in awe of his pugilistic skill and were already clamoring for how they might convince him to impart his fighting strategy. Winning a prizefight just might vault him from shameless blackguard to exciting rogue. Not that such promo
tion helped her cause.

  What cause? She had no cause where he was concerned. Their acquaintance—no matter how delightful—was over. She had to stop thinking of him, particularly when she ought to be enjoying an outing with a man who was courting her.

  “Shall we walk for a bit?” Allred asked.

  She nodded and he climbed down from his horse then helped her from hers. They were riding two of Holborn’s stock. Beautiful, superior creatures.

  He took his horse’s reins and led his mount. Philippa did the same with hers. “I’m glad you’re feeling better today,” he said. “I would’ve hated to postpone our scheduled ride.”

  She wanted to ask him about the prizefight, but it felt odd. Since she’d been there.

  They were silent a moment as they tracked across the spongy, spring ground. Birds chirped in the trees around them, and the scent of lilac wafted in the air. It really was a lovely day, but Philippa couldn’t shake a sense of foreboding. Of change.

  “I think we both know why I arranged this ride today.”

  She nodded, her muscles tensing. She felt anxious, her nerves pulled as tight as an overdrawn corset. Here was the moment she’d been working toward, the moment that would ensure her security. The moment that suddenly felt wrong.

  He paused and turned toward her. “Shall we make things formal, then? I’d be pleased to make you my wife.”

  While it wasn’t the proposal she’d dreamed of, it was the one she needed.

  Even so, panic rose in her throat. He didn’t love her. She’d made a career of rejecting proposals just like this one. But she was out of time. She had to marry now or she might not get another chance.

  Allred took her hand. “We’re well-suited, Philippa. This is an excellent match.”

  She took a deep breath, willing herself to think rationally. It was an excellent match. He would take care of her and give her precisely what she expected: mutual admiration and respect.

  He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her lips, surprising her. “I’ll speak with Holborn and your father about announcing our betrothal tomorrow night.”

  So soon? Of course, you ninny. You’re the one who needs a quick trip to the altar! She wondered if Allred would even care that her mother was about to create a scandal, not that she would tell him.

  They took up their horses’ reins again and walked a bit before remounting and heading back to the stables. By the time they entered the house, her rioting pulse had calmed and she felt almost normal. Her betrothal would be announced, and all would turn out as it should.

  Belatedly, she realized she’d never given an Allred a proper answer. But then, he hadn’t waited for one either. A chill ran down her spine. What manner of marriage was this going to be?

  Chapter Fifteen

  AMBROSE arrived at Benfield the following afternoon at nearly three o’clock. The drawing room was overrun with people drinking tea and sharing gossip. In other words, they were starved for his arrival.

  The moment he entered with Miss Cordelia Mathison on his arm, the room buzzed.

  Saxton stepped away from his position near the windows overlooking the garden and came to meet them. “Afternoon, Sevrin, you’re looking well.” A bald-faced lie given the purple bruise around his left eye and the puffy redness of his cheek.

  “May I introduce my guest, Mrs. Mathison?” She wasn’t really a Mrs., but it wouldn’t do to introduce her as Miss and his guest. It was only a matter of time before everyone determined—if they hadn’t already—that she was a demimondaine, someone who wouldn’t normally be accepted in such a drawing room as Benfield’s, and he needn’t help them along.

  Miss Mathison sank into a respectable curtsey, but her eyes twinkled as she looked up at Saxton. But then, she already knew him. Whether carnally or otherwise, Ambrose didn’t care to speculate.

  To Saxton’s wife’s credit, she promptly came over and also received an introduction. Then Saxton’s sister, Lady Miranda Foxcroft did the same. Others followed—mostly men—while the women regarded Miss Mathison with a mixture of hostility (yes, they’d already figured her out) and curiosity because of the resemblance she bore Philippa. Ambrose was suddenly aware of the potential risk involved with all but declaring that his mystery woman looked like Philippa.

  To compare them side-by-side, one would note Miss Mathison was a bit taller than Philippa and that her hair was nearly the same color. Their shapes were alike enough, provided no one stared too closely at Miss Mathison’s larger bosom. He’d had to caution his borrowed courtesan not to show her teeth when she smiled, because they weren’t nearly as straight as Philippa’s. He’d no idea if anyone would catch that small detail, but he didn’t want to bungle things with something so avoidable as revealing her crooked teeth.

  Finchley came directly to them with a sly grin. He pulled Ambrose away from Miss Mathison and whispered, “This is your masked woman then?” His use of the word woman instead of lady was not lost on Ambrose. The cad.

  “Yes,” Ambrose answered calmly, though he longed to further torture his wounded hands by pounding Finchley into the carpet.

  Finchley’s perusal of Miss Mathison was thorough and lingering. “And I was so certain she was…never mind. Guess that settles the question, then.”

  He had the audacity to look disappointed. What had he been about to say? That he’d been sure Philippa was his mystery woman? That was what Saxton had warned him would happen, was indeed why he’d brought Miss Mathison to Benfield. That Finchley was upset because he would’ve preferred the perversion of ruining a young lady only made Ambrose want to hit him more.

  He flexed his hands, trying to work the tension from his muscles.

  Apparently Finchley’s declaration had settled the issue because what followed was a swarm of men peppering him with compliments and questions. “Excellent footwork.” “Wicked upper cut.” “Any chance you’d give some lessons later?”

  Hell, no. As soon as he was done with this nauseating errand, he’d dash from Society and go back to the warmth and familiarity of his life at the Black Horse. One night. He could endure one night of this nonsense.

  For Philippa.

  He hadn’t seen her in the drawing room, but now he scanned the space again for her dark hair and elegant features. Definitely not here.

  It was just as well. He’d hoped to keep their interaction to a minimum. Was it too much to hope he might escape without having to see her at all?

  While the men swarmed him, he became separated from Miss Mathison. A quick survey of the room found her still standing near the doorway wearing a bemused expression. Where he was overcome with unwanted attention, she was perfectly alone. Ignored. Apparently she wasn’t used to being ignored by men.

  But then Lady Saxton approached her and guided her from the room. She’d served her purpose. Hope surged in his chest. Did that mean they could leave? Ambrose searched for Saxton. He was back at the windows.

  Ambrose murmured a few words of excuse and left his circle of admirers. He pinned Saxton with a harassed glare, which incited Saxton to meet him in the corner.

  “Yes?” Saxton drawled.

  “Get me out of here. Your wife saved Miss Mathison, now it’s your turn to save me.”

  “Go out the door here.” He flicked a glance to the left at the door to the terrace. “If you want, you can go for a ride.”

  Ambrose glowered at him. The bastard knew he didn’t ride. Anymore.

  He turned and left, crossing the terrace and striding down the stone stairs to the garden as if Satan were behind him. Hell, he supposed Satan was always behind him given the things he’d done.

  He walked with no intention of going to the stables. However, he could practically feel spectators watching his every move. A quick look over his shoulder confirmed his suspicion.

  The stables then. At least there he’d be away from over-curious eyes.

  He strode into the cool darkness of the stable and nodded at a groom as he passed. If only he could hide out here until t
omorrow. Until after everyone returned to London. Until after Philippa returned to London. He really preferred not to see her. How many more times would he be able to keep his hands to himself?

  Despite his injuries from the fight, the presence of her next to his bed the other night had been nearly enough to send him over the edge. That dangerous precipice where denial met indulgence. Where lust overrode regret and self-recrimination. A place he didn’t dare go.

  His selfish impulses had ruined one woman and killed his brother—he wouldn’t let them destroy Philippa as well.

  He neared the end of the long aisle between the stalls. This part of the building was blessedly devoid of cattle. To the left was an open door to a tack room. Perhaps he could spend the night on a saddle blanket in there. So blissfully removed. Quiet. Perfect.

  He walked to the door and stopped cold. Standing against the far wall was Philippa. Not standing precisely, more like teetering on a rickety stool.

  Ambrose crossed the small room in four quick strides. “What the devil are you doing up there?” He grabbed her by the waist and swung her to the floor.

  “Oh!” She gasped. Her eyes widened as their gazes met. “I was, ah, trying to reach that bridle on the hook up there. The grooms are all busy, and I thought…” Her voice trailed away to nothing.

  He’d get her bloody bridle. Or at least he meant to. Really, he did. He wanted to let go of her waist, to stop looking into those riveting ale-colored eyes, to cease thinking of the way her lilac-honey scent tantalized him beyond reason.

  But he did none of those things.

  He was at the edge, staring out over the void where there was no reason. No discipline. No regard for anything but his most primal needs. The place where fighting took him. And since fighting was currently out of the question, he seized the next thing he could: Philippa. He tightened his grip on her waist.

  She stood on her toes and touched her fingers to his bruised cheek. “Does it still hurt?”

  The stroke of her hand and the concern in her eyes undid him completely.