To Seduce A Scoundrel

by Darcy Burke

  He lay against her side and drew his finger along her lips, across her jawline, down her neck. He traced the elegant slope of her collarbone and pressed a kiss to the hollow of her throat where her heart beat strong and fast.

  He dragged his fingers down to her breasts, not touching the sensitive peaks, but sweeping around the curves and valleys. Slowly, intently, he circled one breast, teasing her flesh. She arched up, begging him wordlessly to give her more. He closed his fingers over the nipple and lightly tugged. She gasped and her hips came off the bed, signaling how deep her arousal had reached.

  Reluctantly but purposefully he left her breast and trailed his fingers down her belly to the indentation of her navel. She sucked in her breath. He recalled the night they’d met when she’d said she was ticklish. Most definitely.

  He slid lower, skipping the bounty between her thighs—for now. He glided his palm over her hip. She was supple and smooth and powerful, the muscles of her legs defined and athletic.

  Her body told him so many things. How she lived, what she wanted, how he could pleasure her. And that was paramount to him. Not his own satisfaction—which after denying himself so long would be easy enough—but hers. She was a gift he would not take lightly.

  He explored the arc of her thigh, the pocket behind her knee, where he knew she was also ticklish, the sleek curve of her calf. Intermittently she made soft, whispery noises when he grazed a sensitive spot.

  Time to map that most intimate part of her, the part he longed to touch and taste. He brought his hand up between her thighs. Her initial reaction was to clamp them shut, but she quickly relaxed her muscles and even widened her legs. So responsive.

  Dark curls cloaked her sex. With a light touch, he delved through them and found the pink folds, damp and warm with her arousal. “Beautiful,” he breathed.

  He stroked along her cleft, gathering moisture. Her thighs widened further, inviting him, enchanting him. God, she was so wet already. He needn’t do what he was about to, but he couldn’t help himself. Her sweet musk and soft flesh were more than he could stand.

  He leaned down and kissed the skin above her curls. She inhaled sharply, and her buttocks came off the bed. The movement drew his fingertip inside eliciting a soft moan from her lips. He slid further in, and she thrust her hips.

  Quickly, he resettled himself between her legs and pressed his mouth to her clitoris. “Ambrose. What on earth are you doing?”

  Of course she would ask him.

  He smiled against her flesh. “Pleasuring you.”

  “Oh.”

  He licked her as he worked his finger inside and pumped once. Twice. “Is this all right?”

  She threaded her fingers in his hair. “God, yes.”

  “Good.”

  He showed no mercy then. He pushed her thighs open further, exposing her innermost flesh to his greedy gaze. Pink and wet. Delicious. He kissed her fully, his tongue delving deep into her passage.

  She bucked up, crying out as he made love to her with his mouth. Her muscles contracted around him, her thighs tensed as her hips thrust. She’d paid attention when he’d instructed her about rhythm, but her movements were jerky, uncontrolled. He returned his finger to her channel and gave her the rhythm, evening out her thrusts and driving her steadily toward the pinnacle she sought.

  He put his thumb on her clitoris and splayed his hand over the top of her sex. He pressed against her as he feasted. Her fingers gripped the back of his head. Her muscles clenched and she shuddered. Once. Twice. A third time. He thrust his tongue into her and devoured her, his own cock in danger of spilling its seed.

  A small but insistent voice said, you can stop now.

  No, he couldn’t.

  Yes, you can. You haven’t yet broken your vow.

  He sat back as her orgasm faded. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted to allow ragged breaths to escape.

  Leave now and you’ll have nothing to regret.

  Her eyes flew open. The wonder in her gaze instantly turned to apprehension. She sat up and clutched his hand. “Don’t you dare leave me.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  SHE’D seen that look before. That fear and revulsion—not for her, but for himself. She wouldn’t let it take him, not this time. She tugged his hand, trying to pull him down onto the bed with her.

  His face shuttered, his eyes dulled, he resisted her touch. “I ought to go.”

  “No, you ought not. It would be highly ungentlemanly to leave a lady in this situation.”

  His gaze regained focus and settled on her. “My vow is important.”

  She scrambled up onto her knees and took his other hand, holding him tight in her grasp. “I can see that, and I don’t mean to dishonor it. But tell me, why is it important?”

  His eyes narrowed, and his voice was dangerously soft. “You know what happened. I seduced my brother’s fiancée.”

  “And that was horrible, but it’s also in the past.”

  Roughly, he pulled his hands from hers. “He died, Philippa! He found me with her, shot me in the shoulder, which is less than I deserved, and then rode off on Orpheus. Which he would’ve survived if I hadn’t chased him down and caused him to fall.” The anguish lined in his face, the ragged desperation punctuating each word twisted her heart.

  She found his hands again and stroked her thumbs over their backs, willing peace, understanding, forgiveness into his tortured soul. “It was an accident. A terrible, tragic accident. If you were meant to die too, you would have.”

  His eyes widened, giving him the appearance of a boy facing his fear. “But look what I did to you. No good can come from me.”

  She laughed softly, for his logic was quite flawed. She cupped his jaw line. “Plenty of good comes from you. You saved me, Ambrose—not from a ruined reputation and not from danger. You saved me from the cold life my parents orchestrated.” After tonight she could never marry Sir Mortimer. She’d choose an isolated cottage filled with the ghostly memories of her love for Ambrose before she’d wed another man. Which seemed likely because though he might give her his body, he’d never promised his heart or his soul. She wanted, no, she needed both.

  Cautiously, she lay back, offering her body, her comfort, her love. “Show me what else is good.”

  He visibly swallowed, his gaze moving over her like a gentle caress. She waited, breathless, for his decision.

  He leaned down and kissed her mouth. A painstaking brush of his lips over hers. Delicate, sweet. She relaxed and brought her hands up to his shoulders, thrilled by his courage.

  His mouth opened over hers. He slid his tongue into her as he settled his body over hers. She kissed him back, slanting her mouth, meeting him, wanting him.

  The connection of his bare chest against her breasts made her gasp into their kiss. To have him against her—skin to skin—was everything she’d craved. Nothing between them save heat and desire. He pressed his hips down, grinding his hard length deliciously against her.

  She opened her thighs, ready to finally make him hers. His sex nestled hers, and though she’d just found her orgasm moments ago, she was more than ready again. Achingly so.

  His fingers found her most sensitive spot and worked the flesh a moment. She clutched at his waist, trying to pull him harder against her. His fingers delved lower, and he positioned his shaft at her opening.

  “Sweetheart, I do believe this is going to hurt a bit.”

  He pushed inside, opening her farther than she’d ever stretched. He slid in slowly, his thumb massaging her clitoris. She rotated her hips needfully and clasped his hips, seeking that all-important rhythm that would lead them to ecstasy.

  He was going too slow. This didn’t hurt in the slightest. She tightened her grip on his hips and pulled him down as she pushed up. “Oh!” Pain burned as her muscles stretched in a way they’d never done before, and she dug her fingers into his buttocks.

  “Shhh,” he murmured, taking his hand from between them and smoothing her hair back from her face.
He looked into her eyes as he rotated his hips the barest amount. He didn’t move, just kept himself still, filling her, allowing her to accommodate him. He was so beautiful to her, his eyes dark and seductive in the sunset, his skin glistening with damp.

  The burning faded, and pleasure reclaimed her. He kissed her lightly and began to move. A slow withdrawal followed by an equally slow penetration.

  He kissed a path to her ear and whispered, “Open your thighs wider, that’s right, open to me, love.”

  His words only increased her desire, her need. She’d wanted this moment so badly. He plunged deeper on the next thrust—still gentle, but with a bit more force. She gasped and clutched at his back.

  “Now wrap your legs around me.”

  She looked up at him, not sure what he meant.

  He reached down and lifted her left leg then guided it around his hips, opening her even more to him. He pressed forward and, dear Lord, but the sensation was intense. He was so deep, the precision of his entry and withdrawal so perfect. She wrapped her other leg around his hips, and he began to move faster. He tilted his hips forward, grinding against the top of her sex, abrading her most sensitive flesh. She moved with him, urging him to go faster, drive harder.

  “More,” she demanded in husky tones.

  He quickened the pace, driving in and out of her with ruthless grace. There was no pain, only a building bliss similar to before, but completely different. He filled her and yet she didn’t feel full enough. Tiny whimpers escaped her throat as she sought to find that thread of pleasure that would carry her to the other side.

  He thrust harder and then claimed her mouth, conquering her with his tongue as he plundered her with his sex. He moved faster, rising above her, breaking their kiss. He lifted his hand and grabbed the top of the headboard.

  “Come with me now, Philippa. Come with me.”

  His hips stroked a desperate pace. She began to break away. Sparks danced behind her eyelids and she realized her eyes were shut tight. She wanted to see him.

  She opened her eyes and watched the tension in his face. He ground low against her and hovered the barest moment. Then he pulled away from her and rolled to his side. He cried out, a deep, guttural sound.

  His abrupt departure reminded her she’d been in the middle of her own release. Her muscles spasmed, and she missed the pressure of him against her and inside of her. She put her fingers against herself and massaged until the shocks subsided.

  When her breathing slowed a bit, she turned to her side. He lay on his back with his hand thrown over his eyes.

  She watched him a moment then looked down at his shaft. His flesh glistened with moisture.

  He’d stopped himself from leaving his seed inside of her. She supposed that was fair, given they’d made no plans for the future, no promises. Still, emptiness invaded her soul and reminded her that though he’d given her his body, she’d received nothing else.

  A knock on the door startled them both. He sat up, his eyes flicking to the door and then to her.

  “Probably Feeney come to see if she can help me finish getting ready for dinner.”

  Ambrose arched a brow. “She’d be that obtuse?”

  Philippa’s lips curved up. “No. Who could it be then?”

  The knock came again followed by, “Yer lordship? Ye’ve a visitor downstairs,” Oldham called through the door.

  Philippa stood on legs made wobbly by blissful satisfaction. “I’ll go into the dressing chamber.”

  Ambrose nodded as he climbed off the bed.

  She left the door opened a sliver. She wanted to hear whatever Oldham said.

  She found a towel in a stack of linens and cleaned herself. The scent of him clung to her body and she smiled at the hint of ownership she felt. He might not be hers forever, but he’d been hers tonight.

  After tidying herself, she went back to the door and listened.

  “Tell Jagger I’ll be down shortly. And he’s not invited for dinner.”

  She frowned. Jagger?

  Once she heard the door latching shut, she stepped back into her bedchamber. “Jagger’s here?”

  Ambrose had donned his breeches and shirt. He was now plucking up his other clothing. “For the fight.”

  “You invited him to stay here?” No, that didn’t make sense. Ambrose had just said Jagger couldn’t stay for dinner.

  “No. There’s some sort of problem. I need to get downstairs and see what it is. Take your time.”

  The hell she would. She wanted to know what was going on. “Please send Feeney up?”

  He nodded, his clothing draped over his forearm.

  She padded over to him, marveling at how comfortable she felt exposing herself to him. She stood on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you.” She spoke softly against his ear. “I know that wasn’t easy, but you’ve given me a great gift. I’ll cherish it—and you—always.”

  His free hand came swiftly up her neck and cupped the back of her head. He kissed her fiercely, deeply. But it was over much too quickly. Too bad they couldn’t spend the entire evening in bed. There was always after dinner…

  He turned and left, and she hurried back into her dressing chamber, anxious to see what Jagger wanted. Her joy ebbed as she realized it probably wasn’t good.

  Ambrose didn’t have time to reflect upon the loss of his celibacy. He cleaned up and dressed quickly, and a scant quarter hour later he descended the stairs. He only hoped Philippa took a lengthy toilet. He didn’t want her around Jagger or his unscrupulous employees, two of whom were seated on his mother’s favorite settee. Seeing them there—two criminals staining his mother’s memory—negated the bliss he’d so recently enjoyed.

  Jagger stood near the fireplace, a glass of whisky dangling from his fingertips.

  Ambrose took the last few steps loudly so that all three of his guests turned to look at him. “What the hell are you doing in my house drinking my whisky? I don’t recall inviting you.”

  Jagger laughed and then held up his glass in mock toast. “Such charming hospitality.” He took a drink and pressed his lips together. “Fine stuff, Sevrin. I hate to bother you, but we’ve a problem with tomorrow’s bout. Ackley’s opponent tripped down a flight of stairs yesterday and broke his arm.”

  Bloody hell. Ambrose frowned, unaccountably disappointed. “They canceled the fight?”

  “No, they found a replacement for him. Giant bloke called Weatherly.”

  Christ. The mammoth Ambrose had fought in Truro. “He’s a bit advanced for Ackley. He needs a few fights before he can face someone like Weatherly.”

  Jagger sipped his whisky. “Good thing he won’t be fighting Ackley then.”

  A cold sliver of apprehension shot down Ambrose’s neck. “What do you mean?”

  “His one condition for fighting tomorrow is that you’re his opponent.”

  Because the bastard was certain he could beat Ambrose.

  The two men on the settee moved their heads back and forth, watching the conversation like a tennis match. Perversely, Ambrose wanted to knock their skulls together. Their presence in his drawing room only served to remind him how far he still was from becoming a worthy master of Beckwith. He was a fighter. And now a degenerate debaucher of virgins. He grasped the newel post at the base of the stairs until his knuckles whitened.

  Jagger took two steps forward. “Did you hear me?”

  Ambrose moved away from the stairs and toward the sideboard, to the whisky. “I did.”

  “And?”

  Ambrose took his time pouring a glass of his father’s decades-old whisky. He swirled the amber liquid before taking a leisurely sip. His initial response was yes. Though he’d sworn off prizefighting, a rematch with the man who’d beaten him was rather enticing.

  Finally, he turned toward Jagger. After all the bastard had done, Ambrose wanted to torture him, just a bit. “You’ve nothing to force me.”

  Jagger’s brows met as they dipped low over his stern gaze. “I didn’t re
alize I needed to.” He stepped toward Ambrose and spoke in a placating, almost deferential tone. “Consider it a training exercise for Ackley. He can watch you and learn. It would be most beneficial.”

  Ambrose bit back a laugh since they’d already done exactly that. His pulse accelerated as he continued to contemplate the rematch. A rematch in which Ambrose was focused, with his eye on winning instead of losing himself. He wasn’t sure he’d ever fought a bout that way.

  Though, he despised the notion of helping Jagger in any way. It was one thing to shepherd Ackley—which also benefited Jagger of course—and quite another to satisfy the man who’d threatened Philippa on multiple occasions.

  Jagger swaggered around the settee where his lackeys reclined. Thank God they weren’t also sampling Ambrose’s whisky. “I gather you don’t want to resume your fighting permanently, and I swear I’ll never ask you again.” He shrugged and smiled a thief’s smile. The kind that was meant to disarm while he stole your valuables from under your nose. “You have a reputation to regain. I imagine the local townsfolk would cheer for their champion.”

  Ambrose’s neck prickled. Jagger was frightfully well-informed regarding Ambrose’s current position.

  Jagger moved around the settee and stalked toward Ambrose, stopping just shy of him. He regarded Ambrose with a challenging stare. “Come on. Fight. Win. You know you want to.”

  So damn much. Ambrose curled his free hand into a tight fist. “I’ll do it.”

  “No!” Philippa’s feet tapped down the stairs with a staccato rhythm. “You’re not fighting.”

  All heads in the drawing room swung to watch her descend.

  Damn. She’d repaired herself—to astonishing effect—in record time. Her cheeks were still rosy, but he didn’t know if it was from her earlier pleasure or her current pique. Whatever the cause, she stirred his blood as if he hadn’t made love to her less than an hour before.

  She paused at the bottom of the stairs and took in the occupants of the room. Her face paled as her gaze fell on the men seated on the settee. These men had attacked and abducted her in the past.