by Darcy Burke
“Philippa,” he murmured, turning his face so that her palm rested against his flesh. “You should go.”
She laid her other palm against his other cheek and looked into his eyes. “I really should.” But she didn’t, and it was all the invitation his starving body needed.
He kissed her.
Her lips were soft, a balm moving gently over his bruised mouth. One brush. Two. A third time and her mouth lingered against his, her breath teasing its way into his mouth.
He tightened his grip on her waist, his body raging with barely checked desire.
Then she lowered herself and dropped her hands to her sides. He didn’t let her go, and she didn’t break free. Her brow furrowed. “I’d almost forgotten how nice it is to kiss you. Allred kissed me yesterday, and I’m afraid—”
No, no, no. He didn’t want to know that. Couldn’t think of another man touching the woman he so badly craved. With a groan, he pulled her against him and took her mouth with open lips.
Her hands came up again, wrapping possessively, savagely around his neck. She pulled him tight against her as she rose up and pressed her chest to his. She was perfection and agony rolled into one irresistible woman. His body scorched with a need he’d denied for five long years. No, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced a need like this. There was no comparing her to Lettice, a woman he’d desired and taken. Philippa was life’s most fundamental requirement—like air or water. His soul ached to possess her.
Her kiss was innocent and ravenous, sweet and hot. Her tongue danced with his, and she tilted her head to probe deeper, taste more. He held her closer and answered her questing mouth, losing himself in rapture.
She pressed her hips up against his until he could fairly feel the heat of her through all their layers of clothing. Too damned much clothing. He cupped her bottom through all those frustrating layers and brought his other hand around to her breast, sliding his palm over the lush curve.
He tasted her response as she seemed to melt against his mouth. She pushed into his hand and it was all he needed. Lightly, he swept his thumb over her nipple. It instantly peaked beneath her bodice.
Still too many damned clothes.
He unbuttoned her riding jacket with feverish, fumbling hands. She pushed his coat from his shoulders and tangled her fingers in his cravat, tugging at the linen clumsily, desperately.
Her shirt had buttons at the collar and he pulled at them madly. One popped free and bounced against the wooden floor. He broke their kiss to look down at the creamy flesh he’d exposed. Her chest rose and fell deeply with her breathing. He cradled both breasts, one step closer to her lustrous skin without that damned coat covering her. But the shirt was still an impediment. He pulled the neckline down, but it wasn’t enough to expose her. Heedless of any consequence, he tugged the linen until it split past her breasts.
She gasped, and he swallowed the sound with a kiss. She pulled the ends of his cravat free and used them to urge him closer. His hands remained between them, kneading her soft breasts. She moaned into his mouth.
He needed more.
He worked to unlace the top of her stays enough so that her breasts came free and rose above the lace edge. He pulled away from her mouth reluctantly, but he desperately needed to see and taste her.
She tipped her head back, baring the pale column of her throat, leading him down a path to her glorious breasts, the tips dark pink and pebbled with her arousal.
Though hunger drove him to devour her, he cautioned himself to be gentle. She deserved to be worshipped. Adored. He ran his thumbs over both nipples. A soft moan whispered past her kiss-dampened lips. His mouth went dry as he lowered his head and stroked his tongue across her hot, supple flesh.
He lightly tugged on one nipple as he closed his lips over the other and suckled. Her legs quivered and she sagged. He moved a hand to support her back as he licked and sucked her. His cock raged, reminding him how long he’d been without a woman. How long he’d been without this woman—forever.
“Philippa?” The word came from the corridor.
Fuck.
“Philippa?”
Christ, the door was still open. Ambrose tore himself away from her and clasped her shoulders. “Someone’s coming,” he whispered.
“Philippa?” came the questing voice again.
Her eyes grew wide. “Allred. He must’ve learned I was in the stables.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He rushed to pull the door closed, not that it would help. Allred was looking for her, and she was right here.
She fumbled with her stays as she pushed her breasts back beneath them. With shaking fingers, she pulled the strings and tried to tie them. He brushed her hands aside and accomplished the task, but the footsteps sounded outside the door.
He took one look at her flushed cheeks, her pinkened, swollen lips, her heavy-lidded eyes and knew there would be no avoiding scandal this time. The pathetic irony of being caught in flagrante dilecto a second time was not lost on him. Indeed, it crushed what remained of his soul.
There was a knock on the door followed by the creak of old hinges.
Ambrose closed his eyes and didn’t even bother to repair his clothing.
“Philippa?” The sound came from the doorway. “Good God, Sevrin, what are you doing with my fiancée?”
Fiancée? Son of a bitch. He’d done it again. He’d seduced another man’s fiancée and hadn’t even possessed the grace to avoid getting caught.
Philippa shoved her arms into her coat sleeves and drew the garment tight about her in an effort to cover her ruined blouse. Slowly, warily, she raised her gaze to Allred’s outraged countenance. She blinked and willed strength into her suddenly water-filled legs.
Of all the brainless, reckless, scandalous things to do! But the moment she’d turned and seen Ambrose she’d been lost. Her betrothal to Allred, which had already felt wrong, had become impossible. She couldn’t marry one man while she wanted another. And Allred didn’t deserve to be treated the way her father had treated her mother.
Summoning a courage she didn’t feel, she squared her shoulders and faced Allred. “I’m so sorry. I’d planned to tell you we won’t suit after all. Before the betrothal was announced. You deserve better than this.” How trite and inadequate that sounded.
“Damned right I do.” Allred’s hazel eyes turned frigid. “I thought you were an impeccable young woman. How appalling to discover you’re nothing but a harlot.”
Ambrose’s gaze darkened. “There’s no call to insult her.”
Allred sneered. “I’ve insulted her? You’re the one alone in this tack room with her, looking like… that.”
Philippa cringed.
The flesh around Ambrose’s mouth had gone pale. “Allred, I understand your anger. You’ve every right to it. But think of Philippa. She hasn’t publicly embarrassed you. No one needs to know.”
“You’re quite right. There’s no need for me to make her transgression my problem.” Allred glared at her, his lip curling. He looked so different from the charming gentleman who’d courted her the past fortnight. “Why did you accept my proposal if you wanted this blackguard instead?”
She supposed she owed him an explanation, but finding the right words was difficult. “It seemed appropriate for you and me to wed, but I don’t love you. And I don’t think you love me.”
Allred’s gaze turned condescending. “Love is not intrinsic to marriage.” He threw a harassed look at Ambrose. “I do believe you’ve saved me a regrettable trip to the altar.”
Philippa gaped at him. She’d never imagined he could be so cold, but then she’d never imagined she would do what she’d just done with Ambrose. She had no right to judge Allred or his reaction.
Ambrose moved closer to Allred, his eyes narrowing. “She’s apologized, and since your betrothal was not formally announced, you can simply walk away.”
Allred’s hands balled into fists and for a tense moment, Philippa wondered what he mi
ght do. But then Allred relaxed, perhaps recalling Ambrose’s status as a premier fighter. Allred turned to Philippa. “I’ll be courteous despite your debauchery.” The word came out like a knife—sharp and meant to inflict pain. “If anyone asks, I’ll deny I ever proposed.”
Though she was horrified by his hurtful words, his accordance to keep the incident secret was more than she deserved. “Thank you.”
Footsteps sounded against the wood floor outside the door. “Allred, where’d you go? Ah, there you are.” Finchley appeared behind him. “What, ho? Who’ve you found here?” His eyes grew wide as he surveyed the interior of the tack room. He slapped his hand against his thigh. “I was right!” he crowed loud enough for all of Benfield to hear.
Philippa wanted nothing more than to dissolve into a puddle and seep through the cracks in the floor. She turned her back to the doorway. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ambrose’s fists clench and the muscles of his arms flex.
“Finchley, get the hell out of here.” Ambrose’s tone was low, menacing.
Philippa looked over her shoulder so she could watch what happened next. She was afraid Ambrose might go after Finchley.
Finchley jabbed Allred in the shoulder. “I knew she was Sevrin’s mystery woman. After I saw the masked woman last night at the prizefight and learned Lady Philippa had been ‘ill,’ I concluded it was she. Right size, right shape.” His gaze lingered on her backside. Philippa felt nauseous.
Allred’s jaw dropped. “Philippa, was that you at the prizefight?”
She turned slightly. “I—”
“And at Lockwood House?”
There were reasonable explanations for both of those things, but what of today? Shame clogged her throat.
“Leave it,” Ambrose growled.
Finchley stepped around Allred. “I think she owes him the truth. Why the little slut was trying to entrap him—”
Ambrose punched Finchley square in the jaw and again in the eye. Finchley fell back against the doorjamb with a howl.
Philippa slapped her hand over her gaping mouth.
“Ow, my eye!” He pressed his palm to his eye and then grimaced. He turned to Allred. “Am I bleeding?”
“Not yet,” Ambrose said. He hadn’t moved back, and his fists were still raised. His waistcoat pulled tight across his upper back. His face was flushed, and his eyes glittered darkly.
Philippa shivered.
Finchley stared up at Ambrose another moment, spun on his heel, and practically ran from the tack room.
Ambrose dropped his fists, but his frame remained tense, his expression grim.
“You’re not planning on hitting me, too?” Allred asked cautiously.
“You’re not planning on insulting her again?” Ambrose’s tone was sharp, dangerous.
Allred’s features hardened. “When you asked me to spare her reputation, were you threatening me?”
“No, I was asking a favor. Finchley’s been begging for my fist since he started carrying on about this wager like a stallion after a mare.”
Allred looked from Ambrose to Philippa. “Just as you’ve been rutting after each other.” His eyes lit, and he stared at Philippa in shock. “Were you trying to trap me into marriage? Because he won’t marry you?” His face paled. “God, are you carrying his bastard?”
Philippa wildly shook her head. “No, no, no. There is nothing between us. At least nothing beyond what happened here. Which was a mistake. A terrible, thoughtless mistake.” She glanced at Ambrose. His face was hard, stoic. His gaze was fixed on Allred.
Allred straightened his spine. “I’ve no cause to believe you, but I’m enough of a gentleman to let the matter lie. Do not expect Finchley to do the same.” Then he turned and quit the tack room.
Philippa watched his retreat and pressed her hand to her mouth lest a sob escape. He’d been less than gallant, but what did she expect? She’d done him a terrible wrong. And for what? A few minutes of bliss?
No, it had been more than that. What she felt for Ambrose was a bone-deep need that had blocked everything else from her mind—propriety, commitment, consideration of anyone but herself. It was terrifying in its magnitude and in its similarity to her mother.
Ambrose picked up his coat and drew it on. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
Philippa paused in buttoning her jacket over her ruined shirt. “I shouldn’t have kissed you back.” Her fingers shook as she worked to push each button into its hole.
“I didn’t know you were betrothed.”
She looked up at him. “Would it have mattered?”
His gaze was full of anguish. “It would’ve to me.”
She stared at him a moment, her heart thudding in response to the dark emotion in his eyes. He turned away.
With shaking hands, she secured the last button and pulled the top edges of her shirt together, making sure she was as decently covered as possible. “He only asked me yesterday, and I didn’t feel right about it. Then I saw you here and realized I couldn’t marry him. But that doesn’t excuse what I did.”
“What we did. You are not alone in this.” His words gave her a bit of comfort. “I’ll marry you.”
She jerked her gaze to his. Did she really want that? Did he really want that? “I know you don’t want to marry, but why not?” She turned toward him, hoping for once he might give her a direct answer. “You’re a viscount. You should beget an heir.”
Her words stirred no reaction. “What I should do is not often what I choose to do. Which is only one of the several reasons you probably shouldn’t marry me. I’d make a terrible husband. I’m thoughtless, selfish, and I haven’t the slightest notion how to love. Nor do I want to learn. You deserve better than that.”
“You’re not selfish or thoughtless. You never would’ve tried to save my reputation—or my life—at Lockwood House if you were those things.”
He arched a brow. “Are you forgetting I seduced my brother’s fiancée? Or that I just publicly ruined you?”
“We were carried away.” A paltry excuse. They’d both behaved selfishly.
His lips flattened into a grim line. “What I did is indefensible.” He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “But if you want me to marry you, I will.”
That wasn’t the proposal she’d dreamed of either.
She wanted him—at least physically, but what about emotionally? Whether she loved him or not, he’d just said he couldn’t love her and didn’t even want to try. Despite the scandal she was facing, she was unwilling to chance an unhappy marriage.
Saxton burst into the tack room with a furious glower directed at Ambrose. “What the devil have you done?”
“Ah, Saxton,” Ambrose said in a deceptively serene voice. “Will you arrange a carriage to take Philippa back to London? She won’t be returning to the party.”
He was still working to protect her. And she was grateful. She couldn’t face anyone now.
“Tell me what happened first,” Saxton demanded.
Ambrose gave Saxton an equally intimidating stare. “Philippa needs to leave. Have her things sent later. Just get her out of here now.”
Saxton finally looked at her. He pursed his lips and shook his head. How his pity stung. She’d become that poor girl. He returned his frigid gaze to Ambrose. “I assume you’ll make this right.”
Ambrose sent her a questioning look. “I offered to.”
If only Ambrose’s proposal had been driven by love or affection instead of obligation. She wouldn’t marry based on that. She gave Saxton a level stare. “I don’t believe we’ll suit.”
Ambrose’s eyes widened briefly. Then he looked down at the floor as the side of his mouth curved up. It wasn’t an amused half-smile, but one of self-deprecation.
Saxton turned startled eyes to her. “Don’t be foolish, Philippa.”
Elevating her chin, she attempted to make her gaze as frost-laden as Saxton’s. “Was I foolish when I agreed to make it known the announcement of our marriage last fall was a mis
take?” Saxton flinched, and she almost smiled. “No. I did it because I didn’t want to marry you. I didn’t love you, and you didn’t love me. The same is true with Sevrin.” Her chest felt heavy, and her eyes stung. Unfortunately, this situation wasn’t the same. She’d been falling in love with Ambrose. She thrust her emotions away. “What happened here was regrettable—and forgettable. Saxton, do fetch me a coach as I’d like to escape Sevrin’s presence as quickly as possible.”
Head high, and without looking at Ambrose, she turned and strode from the room—and didn’t stop until she reached the other end of the stable.
She was vaguely aware of grooms rushing to ready a coach. In the meantime, she stayed in the shadows and didn’t look toward the house. She imagined people crowding out on the terrace, clamoring for a glimpse of the fallen debutante. That poor girl.
Alone now, she allowed her emotions to return. Her body shook, and her throat itched with unshed tears. Her head began to pound, and heat flooded her cheeks. She wouldn’t cry. Not now. Not yet.
There’d be time for tears later. A lifetime.
Chapter Sixteen
ONE week and nearly three hundred miles hadn’t dimmed Ambrose’s regret. Regret for both Philippa’s downfall and because they’d been interrupted. When he wasn’t brooding over the ways he would’ve made love to her in that tack room, he tried to focus on fighting. Unfortunately, for the first time in five years, violence failed to distract him from his lust.
A perplexing problem since he now found himself at Beckwith, precisely where that lust had caused his downfall.
He looked at his sleeping coach mate, Thomas Ackley. He ought to wake him, but Ambrose needed a few minutes of solitude as they passed Beckwith’s gatehouse.
The coach rambled up the drive of his centuries-old converted castle. Once, long ago, it had been an impressive fortress overlooking the bay and protecting Cornwall from invaders crossing the sea. Now it was a collection of ruined and crumbling structures, including the manor house that had been renovated from the living quarters in the north wall during the sixteenth century.