To Sin With A Scoundrel

by Cara Elliott

  He heard her breath catch in her throat. “I cannot imagine how your concerns could have anything to do with me.” She stirred the bubbling liquid. “We do not move in the same circles.”

  “And yet our paths have crossed.” He stepped around a stack of brass canisters. “Aren’t you the least bit curious as to why?”

  “I am curious about a great many things, Lord Hadley. You are not one of them.”

  Though Lucas admitted he deserved some measure of scorn, her tone pricked his pride. He was not about to let a reclusive widow have the last word. “Before you presume to pass judgment, why not hear me out?”

  “And if I do?”

  “Then you have my promise that I will not trespass on your hospitality a moment longer.”

  The widow hesitated, then abruptly unknotted the strings of her bonnet and set it atop the stack of books. “Very well,” she said, turning to face him.

  Surprise rendered him momentarily speechless.

  His image of her had been completely wrong. Save for the thinned lips.

  But that was only because at the moment they were compressed in a tight line. In their natural state they were full and finely shaped—he was enough of a connoisseur of feminine beauty to recognize their exquisite form, even when distorted by anger.

  Lucas was transfixed by a sudden, thrumming awareness of every fine-boned, graceful detail of her face. His pulse quickened, and his heart thudded against his ribs.

  Lud, how was it he had not heard the lady was an absolute stunner?

  He stared for an instant longer before slowly releasing his pent-up breath and raising his eyes to meet hers.

  Disapproval had dulled their seafoam green color to a stormy gray. Beneath the surface swirled a deeper emotion. Distrust. Darkened with a tinge of fear.

  Lady Sheffield appeared wary of men. He wondered why.

  But before he had time to give the matter further thought, she snapped, “Do go on, sir. I haven’t got all day. You might not have anything better to do with your time, but I do.”

  Arched brows accentuated her displeasure. Like the curls that had come loose from her hairpins, they were a subtle shade of russet gold, sparked with glints of copper. The fiery highlights reflected her smoldering impatience. With a toss of her head, she shrugged off her cloak.

  Forcing his gaze away from her willowy body, Lucas turned to retrieve his portfolio of papers. Shake off this strange bewitchment, he chided himself. He had seen far too many naked—and willing—women to feel such a visceral reaction to a widow dressed like a nun.

  “It might be better if you had a look at these before I explain myself.”

  Ciara took her time in untying the flap. “Is this some sort of joke, Lord Hadley? Some drunken bet scrawled in the betting books for all of White’s to ogle over? Let me guess the gist of it—five hundred pounds says Hadley cannot penetrate the widowed witch’s lair.”

  A last little yank snapped the strings. “You may enjoy all the lurid attention, and the notoriety of having your name become a byword for bad behavior. But I abhor being the subject of idle gossip, of sordid speculation.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly at her words. In the wink of scudding sunlight, Ciara could not be certain of what she saw. Surely it must have been anger, and not regret. A wastrel like Hadley was not the sort of man to repent his sins.

  Still, the urgency of his reply took her by surprise. “As you say, my exploits are well known. I don’t have to engage in any such prank to prove myself.”

  “Then I ask again—what do you want of me? I have nothing a rake would desire.” She knew that was true. Her late husband had made it clear that she was much too thin to stir a man’s lust. And her hair wasn’t the bright guinea gold coveted by most gentleman but was marred by Hibernian highlights. Sheffield had mocked the reddish tint, calling it the stain of her Irish mother.

  She closed her eyes for an instant, hearing his drunken shouts cursing the king, the country, the Little Corsican—anyone but himself—for the empty coffers that forced him to marry for money. She had been no happier about the arrangement than he was. A lofty title was paltry recompense for the abuse she had suffered.

  God rot his cruel bones. The man had been a bully and a lout. She was not at all sorry he was dead.

  When she lifted her lashes, she saw that the earl had come closer. Close enough for her to breathe in the masculine scent of sandalwood and spiced tobacco. Close enough for her to feel the heat of his body caress her cheek.

  “On the contrary, Lady Sheffield. You have exactly what I want.”

  His silky murmur sent a shiver skating down her spine. Reaching her belly, it did a slow, curling somersault as his sapphire gaze darkened to a deeper brilliance. What madness had come over her? It was utterly unreasonable to respond in such a physical way to a rogue.

  Don’t. Oh, don’t stare at his sin-black hair, curling around the chiseled line of his jaw. Don’t wonder how the glossy strands would feel twined around her fingers.

  Ciara smoothed her hands over her gown, unconsciously tightening the silk around her hips.

  His eyes followed the gesture, and he smiled. “Not your fine bosom, or your long legs or your shapely derriere, but your learned mind.”

  She fell back a step, mortified to find herself stammering like a schoolgirl. “I… my… you… are speaking outrageous nonsense, sir. You know absolutely nothing about my person.”

  “No? I’m rather expert at assessing a lady’s charms, even when they are buried in the depths of a dowdy gown. One can tell much from the curve of a neck, or the lithe grace—”

  “That’s enough,” she interrupted, trying to quell the flutter in her belly.

  “Aren’t you curious to hear more?” he asked softly. “Most females like to hear a man appreciate their beauty.”

  No—I’m not curious! But for some perverse reason, the words remained stuck in her throat.

  “As I was saying, you’ve a lovely, lithe grace to your movements. Your hips sway just enough to provoke… improper thoughts. As for your bosom…”

  Her hand flew to her chest.

  “Your breasts look to have the lush roundness of perfectly ripe peaches,” he went on slowly, as if savoring the sweetness of each syllable. “Soft, yielding—”

  “Please get to the point of this visit, Lord Hadley,” said Ciara, finally regaining control of her voice. “My patience is wearing thin.”

  “A pity it is not taking that ill-fitting nun’s collar along with it.”

  “Sir!”

  The earl took another step closer. “Is it true what they say?”

  To her dismay, she felt a rush of heat color her face.

  “About your intellect,” he added.

  Ciara dragged her gaze away from his mouth, supremely sensuous in its curl of silent laughter. “Enough of your insolent arrogance, sir,” she whispered, shoving the package back at his chest. “Whatever your game, it has gone too far.”

  The earl touched her hand. “Forgive my teasing. It’s hard to resist the temptation when anger brings such a lovely glow to your features.”

  “And you are not a man much given to resisting temptation, are you?”

  For an instant, the look of unholy amusement seemed to fade from his features.

  “Well, I, too, am sorely tempted to give in to an urge,” she added. “The one prompting me to consign you and your cursed papers to the flames of hell.”

  “You may wish a quick glance at that manuscript before tossing it in the fire.” His nonchalance was back. “I’m told it is an ancient scientific treatise, as yet unknown in the West. For a serious scholar, its importance would be incalculable. But that is for you to judge.”

  Intrigued in spite of herself, Ciara took a peek at the first page. It did indeed appear to be very old, the ink faded to a spidery tracing. However, considering the source, it was probably a hoax. “Why bring it to me?” she demanded.

  “Because my uncle does not wish to trust it to just any
one. He believes you are the most qualified to examine its contents and make an accurate translation. Some of it is written in a complex code, which he seems to think won’t pose a problem to a lady of your intellect.”

  She snorted in disbelief. His explanation only confirmed her suspicions. “What fustian! I am quite certain I have never met any relative of yours in my life.”

  “No, but Sir Henry Phelps is very well acquainted with your writings and holds you in the highest esteem.”

  Now, that was an unexpected discovery. Ciara would never have guessed that the bookish baronet shared anything in common with the rakish earl. She had read some of the elder gentleman’s essays and found them to be articulate and insightful.

  The only ink Hadley created was page after page of prurient gossip in the scandal sheets.

  “If what you say is true, why didn’t he come himself?” she asked.

  The earl took a moment to answer. “These days, he finds it difficult to manage the short journey from his bedchamber to his study. But it is pride as much as his infirmities that prevent him from leaving his townhouse. He does not like people to see he is confined to a Bath chair.”

  She was surprised by the hint of pain in his voice. Was it possible that a devil-may-care rake might give a damn about someone other than himself? “Do you share his interest in intellectual pursuits?”

  “Not in the least. There are other, far more interesting things to pursue.” He said it with a smirk, but once again, it seemed that the cynicism did not quite reach his eyes.

  Don’t be a fool, she chided herself. It was only a quirk of light that made him look rather sad.

  “However, this means a great deal to him.” There was no mistaking the note of affection in his voice. “And so, I am willing to do whatever it takes—even if it means going through walls—to make him happy. It is the least I can do to repay all his kindness.”

  She felt her initial animosity softening ever so slightly. “You speak as if you are very fond of him.”

  He nodded. “I am. It cannot have been easy for a confirmed bachelor to find himself the guardian of a hellion adolescent. Yet he tolerated my youthful follies with extraordinary patience and good humor.”

  Ciara had assumed that Lord Hadley took nothing seriously, save his own pleasures. But as he looked to the windows, his profile a stark silhouette against the glass, she felt a small prick of conscience. Had she cast his character in too harsh a light? She, of all people, ought to know that the glare of public scrutiny often distorted the true picture.

  “He sounds like a saint.” To mask her confusion, she began a careful perusal of the manuscript.

  “As opposed to the devil of a nephew?”

  She turned a page. Had he read her face so easily?

  He seemed amused by her refusal to answer. Much as she tried to concentrate on the arcane Arabic letters, Ciara caught a quick glimpse of his smile as he strolled to the workbench. After toying with a set of glass vials, he moved on to a tray of seedlings.

  “You ought to know better than to touch anything in a laboratory,” she muttered, annoyed that she was allowing herself to be distracted.

  “It’s one of the reasons I would make a poor scientist.” He lifted a beaker to the light, nearly spilling its contents. “I am constantly forgetting the rules.”

  Her willingness to give him the benefit of the doubt quickly evaporated. “Ignore is more likely the precise word.”

  “Ah, yes, you are an expert in languages, too.” The dratted man was far too fast with his hands. He once again had hold of the erotic book and began thumbing through the pages. “Tell me, do you enjoy the nuances of the Venetian dialect?”

  “What makes you think it’s written in Italian?”

  “Contessa Francesca di Musto is a close friend. I’ve learned enough of the language from her to recognize—”

  “I’m sorry I asked.” Ciara cut him off with a brusque snap and forced her attention back to the ancient handwriting.

  He waited several moments before asking, “Well, what do you think?”

  “A-about what?” The audacity of the man! Did he actually mean to provoke a discussion on the highly improper verses and pictures he was ogling? There was a perfectly reasonable explanation for the book’s presence in her workroom. She had been doing a bit of research for “The Immutable Laws of Male Logic” and had discovered that its text displayed a well-endowed sense of humor… to go along with its graphic illustrations.

  The earl’s brow arched. “The manuscript, of course. What else would I be referring to?”

  Ciara found herself blushing again.

  His cough sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, but when he spoke it was in all seriousness. “Will you take on the task of translating the text for Sir Henry?”

  “I haven’t yet decided.” Reaching for her magnifying glass, she made a show of studying a small sketch in one of the margins.

  To her chagrin, he resumed his wandering about her work area. It was impossible to concentrate, hearing the scuff of his boots, the rustle of paper and rattle of glass. At the faint pop of a cork, she abandoned all pretext of examining the intricate brushstrokes and spun around.

  The earl was dabbing a bit of jade-colored oil on his wrist. “Essence of juniper,” he read from the label. “It’s rather nice—not at all like a whiff of cheap gin.”

  “Put that down!” Grabbing up a rag, Ciara rushed to his side. “It’s not meant to be used undiluted. It will burn right through your flesh. Here, let me have a look.” She peeled back his cuff and set to wiping off every trace of green.

  His hand had none of the softness expected of a fashionable fop but was strong and solid, the sinew and muscle well defined. A scar cut across his knuckles, and a dusting of dark hair ran along his forearm. Turning it over, she saw the palm was callused, as were the tips of his long fingers. Yet their touch was surprisingly gentle as they closed around her wrist.

  Up close, he radiated a rampant masculinity, and against her will, she found herself thinking of all the naughty things she had overheard in the park.

  “I haven’t finished,” she murmured, hoping he didn’t hear the odd little catch in her voice.

  “Neither have I.”

  Ciara had every intention of pushing him away, but some strange alchemy kept her frozen in place. He kissed her lightly, the brush of his lips feathering across her cheek. Suddenly she was no longer cold, but hot all over. Somewhere in her core a flame licked up. Her flesh began to burn as his palms slid up her arms.

  No. No. No. This could not be happening.

  Dazed, she opened her mouth to protest, only to find it captured in a far more intimate embrace. His tongue traced over her lips, and his teeth nipped her flesh. Then he was inside her, tasting of salt, of smoke, and of some earthy spice she could not put a name to.

  Her attempt at speech came out as a wordless moan. It had been so long since she had been kissed. So long since she had been desired. So long since she had felt this alive.

  The earl deepened his teasing tempo of slow, swirling thrusts. Mindless of all else, she opened herself to his sinuous rhythm, tentatively at first, then with increasing abandon.

  Wicked, wicked.

  The tantalizing touch and taste of him were suddenly withdrawn, and his mouth—still lush with heat—was tracing the line of her jaw.

  Ciara closed her eyes and gasped for breath.

  “Heaven help me.” Was it a plea for strength? Or a signal of sinful surrender? She wasn’t sure she knew herself.

  In response, he framed her face with his palms, and that terrible, tempting mouth was once again suckling the swell of her lower lip. Gently, sweetly—as if such a thing were possible from a notorious libertine—his kisses fell like a soft summer rain. On her chin, her cheeks, her brow.

  Clutching at the solid, sloping slant of his shoulders, Ciara found herself melting, molding against his body. Dear God. Had every sensible bone in her body turned to putty? She knew she should summo
n the resolve to force him away. Yet as her fingers curled, it was only to rake at his coat, digging for a deeper feel of every nuanced contour.

  He stilled.

  The awful truth was, she wanted him to keep kissing her. No matter that he was a practiced rake, a lustful libertine. She was suddenly tired of having to be strong and sensible when inside she was feeling alone and frightened. And unwanted.

  She had buried her need so deeply, she had thought it beyond reach. But in a matter of moments, the earl’s lithe hands had stripped away her defenses, exposing that need to light and heat. No amount of scientific study had prepared her for the chemical reaction. It was explosive.

  “Dear God.” She said it aloud, finding her voice had the ragged pitch of a total stranger.

  He looked up and slowly smiled. “Whatever potions you brew here are potent as sin,” he said rather thickly. The sandalwood scent of his cologne was now mixed with an elemental essence of his own exertion. The effect was intensely erotic.

  Her mouth quivered. “I-I cannot explain this alchemy.”

  A sound—somewhere between a laugh and groan—tickled her earlobe. “Nor can I. But a man could die happily in its embrace.”

  Ciara blushed. “It makes no sense when you… analyze the ingredients. We are too different…”

  “I seem to recall hearing that opposites attract.”

  That must be the answer. Otherwise, there was no way to explain the forces drawing them together. “Logical thought would—”

  With a smooth, stroking touch, his finger stilled her lip. “Some things defy logic. Don’t think, just feel.”

  She was acutely aware of the chiseled contours of his muscle. Oh, he felt wickedly good.

  The earl’s whisper tickled her ear. “Sheffield was an even bigger fool than I thought,” he added. “To have sought his pleasure elsewhere.”

  The mention of her late husband saved her from surrendering completely to the madness of the moment.

  As reason returned, she somehow summoned the strength to pull back. “Like most men, Sheffield lusted after what he did not already have.”