Scandal in Spades

by Wendy Lacapra

“Thank you,” she said sincerely. She entwined her fingers in his hair. His locks were soft and damp. “Not that I would have seduced you, sheets to the wind as you are.”

  “Seduced me?” His brows furrowed. Adorably.

  “I’ve a terrible history,” she explained.

  He growled and tightened his hold. There you are, my brute. The flutter in her heart stilled. For the first time ever, she felt entirely safe. Let the whole world spin around them with words like “sin” and “shame” and “failure”; she and Giles would form the unmoving heart of the storm.

  “If only there were another way.” The side of her lip turned up. “A way your virtue could be preserv—”

  Her sentence disappeared into his kiss, raw, hungry, and only slightly gin-tainted. She returned his fervor with an intensity that made the shriveled need inside her something lasting and whole.

  “Please,” she murmured against his lips.

  “Please?” He pulled back, gaze searching. “I will not. I canno—”

  “Hush,” she said. “Stop when you must, but not now.”

  She watched in fascination as the haze behind his eyes cleared. He released her and went to fumble through his discarded waistcoat.

  He returned with something clasped in his fist. “Your hand, my lady.”

  She rested her palm in his. His warm hand spread her fingers and then cold metal slipped into place.

  “There,” he said, with satisfaction.

  She lifted her hand. Rubies glinted in the firelight, dark and mysterious. Such a thoughtful touch. She blinked back her tears. Twice betrothed and she’d never worn a ring.

  “Giles,” she said, “it’s beautiful.”

  “In Scotland,” he said with tipsy pride, “we’d be wed.”

  “We are not in Scotland,” she replied with a mad little laugh.

  “Shall I stop?” he asked.

  Her breath hitched. “No.”

  He lowered his chin to look deeply into her eyes. “I will be worthy.”

  “Of course.” She leaned in. “You are already worthy.”

  His lips brushed hers with growing demand. His desire was like music, the coordinated percussion of lips and breath. While his lips tantalized, his fingers found her breast. His rough breath burned her cheeks as he teased, tracing a lazy spiral from under curve to nipple.

  Her heart leaped with anticipation and need. And then, he took her full breast into his palm. Ache spasmed through her body. As if responding to a silent call, he slid the pad of his finger over her nipple. Her knees buckled. He caught her before she fell.

  Lifting her as if she weighed no more than a doll, he carried her to the bed and settled her against the pillows. His eyes met hers, blazing with possessive heat, before they dropped back to her chest. He lowered his head. Over the fabric, he took her nipple into the soft, wet heat of his mouth.

  She moaned.

  “Do you like that?” he asked.

  “Like” was not the word she would have chosen. She came alive with that. The sensation made her want to sing.

  “Yes,” she laughed. “Yes!”

  He slid down on his haunches. Holding her with his eyes, he inched his hand up her leg.

  “Where are your stockings?” He traced her calf.

  “Drying by the fire.”

  “Were you wearing the silky pink fribble you had on the day we went to the folly?”

  A smile spread her lips. “I thought you had not noticed.”

  “Of course, I noticed.” He rested his cheek on her thigh, and his breath seeped through the linen, tickling her delicate flesh. He traced a long, maddening oval up and down her thigh.

  “What color were the ties?” he asked. “Matching pink? Or white?”

  “Black,” she replied.

  He groaned. “Wear them the day we wed.”

  She snorted. “Yes, your lordship.”

  “Just Giles.” His hands traveled down her leg. “With you, only Giles.”

  He shifted, lifted her foot, and kissed her arch. She sucked in her breath through her teeth, but made no sound. Yearning fluttered out from her very essence. His lips moved, slow and deliberate, up her leg. Her pleasure intensified. When he paused to explore the tender place behind her knee, she became liquid fire.

  He continued exploring her inner thigh. He draped her leg over his shoulder so that it dangled down his back. She looked down at his hair in hazy disbelief. He intended…oh, goodness…

  Her body did not mind. She was wet. Embarrassingly so.

  He blew softly against her sex. Sweet, sweet torture—far beyond anything she’d dreamed possible. A moan escaped as craving ate away at her reserve.

  He laughed, low and breathy, and then he pressed his mouth against her folds, sending sparks of pleasure through every limb. Her leg slid off his shoulder. He didn’t lift his face. His tongue circled her in gentle, rapid pulses until her breath matched his frantic rhythm.

  She hissed through her teeth.

  She would do anything—anything—he asked, so long as he kept going. She wanted to sigh. She wanted to pull him closer. She wanted to wail his name from the deepest, wildest part of her heart. Yearning swelled—blinding, breathless—then, she burst, spinning through pleasure, all that she’d kept locked, tumbling out in disarray.

  Bromton dug his fingers into her thighs, pulling her back to the present, back to him. He cradled himself between her thighs, pressing his head into her belly.

  Oh. My.

  She blinked up, the light dancing on the ceiling nothing more than a blurred haze. What had just happened felt like an answer to a question she’d been asking in vain for years. Wonderful, yes, but leaving her exposed and vulnerable.

  Vulnerable to a brute. A thief who had stolen her heart.

  She lifted herself onto her elbow so that she could see him. His hair fell in raffish locks around his face. Sin coated his lips, curving upward in a smile of pure bliss.

  What they’d just done was nothing like the hasty coupling she’d experienced with Septimus. She and Giles hadn’t even coupled, and she was infinitely more satisfied.

  Bromton smoothed her curls away from her face and kissed her hair. His fingers moved like silk along her brow. Tendrils of tenderness grew from her heart, reaching out.

  She couldn’t lie anymore. She was in love. Hopelessly. Desperately in love.

  “Thank you, Giles,” she said. “I feel—” Her words tripped over a blockage in her throat. “I feel happy,” she finished.

  He snuggled his face into her neck. “You are mine to pleasure.”

  “Not yet,” she whispered, “not really.”

  He drew back and tsked. “If you think I’d let you go, you are very much mistaken.” He winced as he settled onto the mattress at her side. “Now, I must think of something dreadfully mundane.”

  She turned toward him and spidered her fingers across his chest. “Must you?”

  He opened one eye. “I must.”

  “I think not,” she said, mimicking him.

  The things she imagined—well, no decent lady would even dream them, let alone be eager to try. But hadn’t Giles said there was no shame in desiring the person you loved?

  “I could,” she lowered her voice to a wicked purr, “touch you,” her hand skimmed his manhood, “the way you touched me.”

  His fingers circled her wrist. “I will not allow…”

  “Allow?” She pressed her breasts into his side, feeling friction against her nipples through the thin fabric of her shift.

  “Katherine…” His voice was delightfully hoarse and pleading.

  “Shh,” she replied.

  “Quick studies,” he said with a slur, “you S-Stanleys.”

  Her chuckle came out throaty and warm. “Quick studies, yes. Imaginative, too. Shall I show you?”

  For a long moment, he held her gaze. Then, he touched her betrothal ring and released her wrist.

  “You’ll have to say no,” she spoke with a sultry purr, “if you
truly want me to stop.”

  He remained silent. She sat up on her knees. All this strength—this male beauty—hers. Her breath grew heavy with boldness, her blood hot with fire.

  He stared into her eyes. A heady rush flushed her cheeks. Could she really do as she planned—take him into her mouth as he’d done to her? Strange, this longing to taste him. Not just taste him, but swallow him whole.

  She bowed her head. Scalding fingers lifted her jaw. His eyes had grown sharp as pointed as daggers.

  “You do not need to do this,” he said.

  She sucked in her lip. “I want to do this.”

  His thumb traced her mouth. “Unbutton the flap, Hellion, then see if you want what you think you want.”

  Her fingers, trembling, worked each fastening in the flap. First right, then left, and then the leather fell away. Three more buttons closed the final, straining seam. Her courage failed.

  “Giles,” she whispered.

  He took her hand in his. Together, they worked the top button open—a dark strip of hair. The second—a smooth bit of veined skin. The third—her hand fell away as he worked beneath the leather to lift out the length of his cock. She drew in a breath through parted lips.

  “Now, you understand.” He touched her face with his free hand. “Do you wish to continue?”

  She understood that her lungs had constricted. She understood her shift had again grown damp with her wanting. She understood he was everything she’d imagined. And she understood she could never turn back.

  “I wish to continue,” she replied.

  The scent of arousal grew thick. Her hands cupped him with gentle fingers, and she pressed his length to her lips. The string of throaty oaths he uttered filled her with triumph.

  She pushed any lingering shame to the back of her mind. Slowly, she licked him, base to glistening tip. He groaned low and resonant—a melody of desire. He cupped her head, forcing her closer. The desire to please and pleasure made her feral. His cock was all she could see, all she could breathe. She released him from her mouth and smoothed the hot, soft skin of his member along her cheek. The tip glistened; she dared to taste.

  “Please,” he spoke from the flat plain of his belly.

  “Yes, Giles?” she asked. “Tell me what you’d like.”

  She could get lost in his eyes on a normal day. Today, she was ensnared. He was a man at war with his desire. Holding his gaze, she ran the tip of her tongue over his manhood.

  “I want my cock in your mouth.”

  A naughty pleasure made her shudder.

  “Very well.”

  She closed her lips around his member and took him deep into her mouth. The sensation stung. She froze, countering an unexpected wave of panic.

  He placed his hands on either side of her mouth, his thumbs massaging her jaw. “Open. That’s it. Yes. Soften.”

  She relaxed her jaw.

  “That’s good,” he moaned. “So good.”

  She concentrated on the feel of his fingers as he guided her. At last, she fell into a rhythm. The final wisps of discomfort floated away. In and out—over and over, until his thighs began to quake. Forcefully, he shoved her back, in order to withdraw.

  “You’re not finished,” she panted.

  He flushed. “Take off your shift.”

  She shimmied the thin linen up over her head. His exhale was audible gratitude. He took both her hands into his. The first, he lay against his heart. The other, he guided to his member.

  He entwined her fingers with his, and stroked.

  He closed his eyes and threw back his head. His features contorted with a beautiful, raw need. His mouth parted, lips quivering with forced breath. Sweat teased his temples and sprouted at the V of his neck. He was giving her this—revealing his naked, primal parts, displaying his agony, his lust, and her power—the very things men thought to hide in darkness.

  His seed burst forth as he quaked. He’d climaxed in the most breathtakingly candid encounter she could have imagined.

  …

  He’d come like a dammed schoolboy, crying out and helpless, feeling her eyes on every crude shudder, every undignified gasp. He hadn’t just come, he’d burst free.

  Free. And yet, bound. Bound to his betrothed. To Katherine.

  His roar released seed that spilled over his stomach, her hands—he opened his eyes—and, devil take it, her neck.

  Not that she seemed to mind being so defiled. Her expression glowed with dominant indulgence. He wet his lips. She was so exquisitely fine.

  They’d both drank deep of pleasure, and, yet, he’d preserved his vow. Barely. He had not, according to the letter of the law, actually gained carnal knowledge of his future wife. Then again, the law considered what they had just done unnatural. He should be ashamed. But he wasn’t. And, it appeared, neither was she.

  He ignored her whimper of protest and retrieved his towel from the basin. Carefully, he tended her needs, then his own, and then tossed the rag back into the basin.

  With a wholehearted sigh, he gathered her against his side.

  “I am tamed,” he said.

  Her giggle vibrated against his ribs. Delicious.

  “For shame,” she said. “All I had to do was deprive you of a little meat and sleep, and you begged a spinster lady to be your bride.”

  “I wouldn’t talk, my sweet. I deprived you of my presence for a mere two days, and you begged to taste my cock.”

  Her little gasp sent him soaring.

  “Scoundrel,” she accused.

  “Would a scoundrel show such restraint?” He wound a curl around his finger.

  “If the scoundrel was you, obviously. Besides, I think this was part of a fiendish plan.”

  He let the curl drop. “What do you mean?”

  “You intended to make me wild with wanting.” She snuggled closer. “So you could make sure that the most unmarriageable maiden wouldn’t leave you waiting at the altar.”

  She spoke in jest, but the thought sent fissions of alarm through his veins. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t—lose her. Not now. Not ever.

  “Remember, sweet, I had no idea you were in the room when I came up those stairs.”

  She hummed thoughtfully as she stretched. “I suppose I will have to wait for the wedding night for the real thing?”

  Gingerly, he kissed her forehead. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  He wasn’t sure. Certainly, it would be to his advantage to bed her as soon and as often as she’d allow. To get her with child had been the point, after all.

  …until he’d come to know her heart.

  Now, he wanted to find the gentleman within—or what was left of him—for her.

  He lifted her hand and turned her fingers so the rubies shone in the firelight. “Because I want our marriage to be perfect.”

  She made a throaty sound of approval before snuggling beneath his chin. If this was to be his future, he’d never be lonely again.

  Chapter Ten

  Before Giles had departed The Pillar the prior evening, he’d warned Katherine his longtime friends awaited them at Southford. Despite Katherine’s fears, the evening that followed had been a success. No one remarked on her late arrival—a careful quarter hour after Giles—and after a delightful meal, they’d occupied the night planning the archery competition in which they were currently engaged.

  If Giles’s friends had found his sudden betrothal odd, they had not revealed their misgivings.

  Lord Farring, Katherine had been introduced to in London. At the time, she hadn’t warmed to the handsome duke’s son. Last night, however, she and Lord Farring had developed a near-instantaneous rapport—rooted, undoubtedly, in their mutual esteem for Giles.

  Tall, slim, and effortlessly elegant, Lord Farring had bright, brown eyes and a boyishly handsome smile that lifted his tortoiseshell spectacles and shook his sand-colored curls when he laughed, which happened to be often. But beneath his smile, Katherine sensed a man of deep loyalty.

  Giles
told Katherine he and Farring had disliked each other on sight when they’d been assigned to the same room at school, then, over time, he’d developed an unshakable trust in Farring’s judgment. Farring had scoffed in response, saying Giles only tolerated his presence because he’d made it his personal aim to bring levity to the ever-serious, responsible Giles.

  Lord Rayne’s character had been harder to decipher. Older than Markham, but younger than Giles and Lord Farring, the earl was exceptionally handsome. His chiseled cheeks complemented a prominent nose and a distinguished cleft chin. Like Giles, his light eyes appeared all-the-more piercing, contrasted by hair black as night. But where Giles’s eyes were gray, Rayne’s were an icy blue. And where Giles radiated vigor, Rayne exuded polished reserve.

  Rayne’s lands bordered Giles’s, Giles had reminded Katherine. And, he added, his family had made a significant investment in the mines that had made Rayne a very wealthy man, wealth that had only grown under the advice Giles had provided following the younger man’s father’s untimely death.

  All of which meant that Rayne, Giles explained, was almost like a brother.

  Rayne had remained strangely quiet while Giles spoke, leaving Katherine to wonder what had not been said. Rayne was charming enough, however, even though his manner suggested perceived superiority. In fact, his lordly manner roused Julia’s ire the instant he’d paired with Julia for the morning’s competition, much to the amusement of Markham and Farring, the self-appointed judges.

  But when, on Giles’s turn, Giles removed his coat to allow for a better range of motion, Katherine lost interest in Rayne. She simply could not look away from the shadow of muscle visible through Giles’s shirtsleeve. He pulled the bowstring back and closed one eye. Katherine felt the arrow strike the mark as much as she heard the thunk.

  Luckily, the vibrating arrow masked her breath’s subsequent hitch.

  Markham and Farring conferred.

  “Just to the right of center,” called Lord Farring.

  “Agreed,” Markham added.

  The sunlight haloed Giles’s face as he turned. He bowed with a smile.

  “For my lady,” he said.

  The baby thrushes danced.

  “Puff up while you can, Bromton.” Rayne peered over baskets of bows and arrows. “I will prevail.”