Never Seduce a Scoundrel

by Sabrina Jeffries

  An instant’s terror seized him. What an awesome responsibility this was—to make right whatever Pomeroy had done to her, while also easing her from maiden to wife. If he didn’t handle it delicately—

  “Lucas?” she said in that throaty voice that turned his knees to rubber.

  And desire drove out the terror. He moved farther down toward the foot of the bed, then bent his head to where her pretty brown curls, still dewy from her bath, hid a second pair of pouty lips he just had to taste.

  “What are you doing?” she cried, trying to draw her legs together.

  He smiled at her. “Giving you an adventure, darlin’.” Then he buried his mouth in her slick warmth.

  She smelled of soap and musk, a scent guaranteed to drive any man crazy. It was all he could do not to just plunge his cock deep inside her.

  But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. After what she’d endured, she deserved better.

  So he gave it to her, laving her with his tongue, using his teeth and lips to arouse her, glorying in how she wriggled and squirmed, how she rose to meet the thrusts of his tongue. The very taste of her brought him to painful heights of arousal, yet he went on and on.

  Only after he felt the spasms of her climax against his mouth, heard her cry out his name, did he rise up on his knees and take advantage of her heightened state of pleasure to push his heavy cock slowly into her.

  Her eyes flew open. “Well!That’s…oh…you’re so…”

  He came up hard against the barrier of her innocence and halted.

  “What’s wrong?” she murmured.

  “As it turns out, darlin’, you were right. You’re a maiden still.” A rush of relief hit him. Pomeroy hadn’t harmed her.

  And she was chaste. It shouldn’t matter—it wasn’t as if she’d done anything to invite that ass’s attentions—but Lucas had to admit it did matter a little. He couldn’t prevent the errant thrill of possession that went through him to realize that he was her first, her only.

  “But you won’t be a maiden for long.” Giving her no time to think or worry about it, he broke through.

  She gave a heart-wrenching cry, and he winced, wishing it didn’t have to be this way. Wishing it didn’t have to feel so damned good to be buried to the hilt inside her.

  He pulled out a fraction, and her moan cut through him. “Tell me if it hurts too much, and I’ll stop,” he said hoarsely, praying that he actually could.

  “Don’t you dare.” She grabbed his shoulders to hold him. “It hurts, yes, but I want to know the rest of it. Every bit.”

  He searched her face and could tell she meant what she said. “Thank God.”

  But when he continued pulling back, she frowned at him. “I told you not to stop,” she said, almost petulantly.

  “This is how it’s done, darlin’. Out and in. Like the motion of a hand. Remember?”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh. Right. I’m such a ninny.”

  He drove back in, then groaned. “A very tempting, very appealing ninny. God, woman, you feel so damned…good.”

  “Do I?” she said, with a Delilah smile of delight. “Tell me how it feels for you. That harem book didn’t give nearly enough details.”

  He managed a rough laugh. “Leave it to you…to learn lovemaking from a…book.” Holding himself off her with one hand, he caressed her breast with the other, wishing he’d taken the time to suck it earlier, too.

  An anxious look crossed her now flushed face. “Lucas, the book…well…it didn’t go beyond a certain point. I…I don’t really know what to do…what I should be doing.”

  Bending to kiss her neck, her throat, her cheek, he increased his thrusts. “Do whatever pleases you, darlin’. Whatever feels good. What excites you.”

  “Oh.” She wriggled a little beneath him. “L-Like that?”

  “God, yes,” he said hoarsely, his cock driving harder almost of its own accord. “Keep moving…like that…”

  “And perhaps—” She licked and tugged at his nipple with that delicious mouth of hers, and he groaned. “Yes?” she asked, her sultry smile devastating him.

  “Yes, my darlin’ Delilah…oh, yes…”

  After that, neither of them could manage speech. He was fighting too hard to delay his release, to wait until she could reach it with him. But it got more difficult by the minute, with her rubbing his shoulders, teasing his nipples, arching her pelvis up against him until he felt as if he drove into the very heart of her. With every thrust, he tried to pierce the part of her that was English and rich and noble, the part he ached to conquer…the part he feared he could never possess no matter how hard he struggled…

  “You belong to me now, Delilah,” he cried, determined to make it so. He pounded into her, feeling his release approaching, building. “You’re my wife…forever…”

  “My husband,” she choked out, staring up at him with all the fierceness of a tigress laying claim to her mate. “Forever.”

  Feeling himself on the edge, he reached down and fondled her slick little pleasure spot, until her body went taut and her fingers dug into his shoulders as she found her release.

  Only then did he spill himself inside her. And in that brief, glorious moment, as he poured himself into her, he believed she could be his forever. That they could have a lasting marriage. That the empty loneliness of the past three years might actually be at an end.

  He collapsed on top of her, his heart threatening to beat right out of his chest with the power of his satisfaction. The power of his intense joy.

  After a while, he rolled off her to lie staring at the ceiling, savoring thoughts of their fine future as husband and wife, letting himself be seduced by hope.

  It took them both several moments to regain their breath, several moments to settle their frantic pulses, as the sun set behind the inn room’s lacy curtains, and the sounds of guests trooping down to dinner filtered in.

  Then she stirred beside him. “It really did matter, didn’t it?”

  Her hesitant voice gave him pause. “What?”

  “That I was a virgin. I saw your face. It mattered.”

  His heart twisting in his chest, he reached over and pulled her into his embrace. “What matters to a man isn’t so much that his wife be chaste as that he be the one to teach her about pleasure. I won’t lie to you. Every man wants that. But I would have had that either way.” He managed a smile. “Because any woman who can’t remember her deflowering is, for all intents and purposes, chaste as a nun.”

  She arched one eyebrow. “And you, sir? Were you chaste?”

  He blinked. It wasn’t a question he’d expected. “Sorry, darlin’, but no.”

  “That’s not fair,” she pointed out.

  “True, but it’s the way of the world. And the world is pretty unfair.”

  “Don’t I know it,” she grumbled.

  He couldn’t help chuckling. She looked so adorably annoyed. “If it’s any consolation, this was my first time to share a bed with someone who mattered to me, someone I cared about.”

  Brightening, she turned to search his face. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  She snuggled close. “I’m glad. And I’m glad you were the one to take my innocence and not Pomeroy. Because there’s another reason a man wants his wife to be chaste on their wedding night—so he can be sure his first child is his own.”

  He froze. Hellfire and damnation. He’d been so eager to do the honorable thing by Amelia that he hadn’t thought once about children. But of course marriage—and the marital bed—led to children.

  For a moment, he indulged in a pleasant vision of him and Amelia with laughing girls frolicking in the garden and sturdy lads sailing miniature ships in the pond. They would view his diplomatic career as an adventure, the same way their mother would.

  Except that he couldn’t start that career until he captured Frier and returned the money the man stole from the navy. Money that was giving Amelia’s family their pleasant and comfortable life.

  His entici
ng vision vanished. Amelia would never forgive him if he ruined her family while setting matters right. He’d convinced her to marry him despite her fears, but she’d done so believing that Dolly Smith was not Dorothy Frier. Once she heard the full story and learned otherwise, she wouldn’t side with him.

  Not that it mattered. They were married, and even if she hated him, he was responsible for her—responsible for their children.

  So he’d simply have to lay down the law, make it clear how things stood, now that she’d thrown in her lot with him. She was his wife, and she had to support him even if she didn’t like it. She would have to abide by the rules he dictated.

  Ha—Amelia would never resign herself to anything anyone dictated. The woman had a mind of her own.

  He groaned.

  “Hmm?” Amelia asked sleepily, her head cradled against his shoulder.

  “Nothing, darlin’,” he murmured. “Go to sleep.”

  “Mmm.”

  As she fell back into a doze, he stared down at her damp hair, curling sweetly about her shoulders as it dried. When his cock stirred, he threw his head back against the pillow.

  God, she had him panting after her like some half-wit hound. It was dangerous how much she affected him. He’d begun to crave her company, and not just in bed, either. That wouldn’t do. No man could be master of his house when his wife had such power over him. God knows his father had proved that.

  He stared bleakly up at the ceiling. Fine. He would teach himself not to crave her too much. He would enjoy what she had to offer—oh yes, he’d certainly do that—but he’d be careful. Because if he gave in to his need for her, if he showed any weakness, she’d have him twisted about her finger so quick he’d never unwind himself.

  And that was something he definitely couldn’t risk.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dear Cousin,

  Lord and Lady Tovey are both half-mad with worry, and I am little better. I was tempted to tell them the information you sent me about the major a few days ago, but until we know which man Amelia has ended up with, I did not think I should betray your confidence.

  Your anxious cousin,

  Charlotte

  Some impertinent servant was stroking Amelia’s hair back from her face, pulling her slowly from sleep. She grabbed at the hand, then froze when she realized it was big and hairy and obviously male.

  Her eyes flew open to find Lucas bent over her, already fully dressed. “Time to get up, darlin’,” he murmured in a husky voice.

  It came to her in a rush…why he was here, where they were, and what she was doing stark naked between the sheets.

  She’d never slept naked before, and certainly never with a man. At any other time she would have found it wildly thrilling. But the window beyond Lucas showed it was still dark, and she felt limp as a dishcloth after their vigorous night.

  Shutting her eyes, she snuggled back into her pillow. “Go away.”

  “Get up, Amelia,” he said, his tone firmer.

  “Not yet,” she mumbled.

  “You can sleep in the carriage.”

  She sighed. Major Crack-of-Dawn Winter wouldn’t let her stay in bed unless she did something drastic. Opening her eyes, she propped herself up on one elbow so that the sheet drooped provocatively below her breast. “And you can come back to bed.”

  He froze. His black-as-Satan eyes raked down her with an ardent knowing that made her shiver. It reminded her he was now intimately acquainted with every line and hollow and curve of her body…that he’d kissed or fondled them all at some point during the long, very adventurous night.

  His heavy-lidded gaze lifted to hers. “We can do that in the carriage, too, Delilah. Now get dressed. The inn is full, and we’ll never get horses and a postboy if we don’t leave early.”

  He tossed her a piece of linen that turned out to be her chemise. She vaguely remembered his washing it and her other undergarments in the bathwater sometime during the night and hanging them up to dry by the fire. It smelled clean, and the lingering warmth from the fire felt so good…

  “No, you don’t,” he growled as he spotted her sinking back with the warm chemise clutched to her cheek as a child clutches a blanket. “We need to start out for London as soon as possible.”

  “Why?” she mumbled.

  “We don’t want to give Pomeroy time to spread nasty rumors. I don’t trust him.”

  “He won’t talk. He’ll be too embarrassed.”

  “You didn’t think he’d kidnap you either, did you?” When she frowned at him, he added, “Besides, your parents must be frantic with worry.”

  She sighed.That was a compelling argument. Sitting up, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, then glanced around. The room was in perfect order, the tub and wet towels gone, her dirty gown and petticoat sitting folded on a dresser, and her drying drawers and stockings hung neatly over the backs of two wooden chairs before the fireplace. Clearly, life with a soldier would take some getting used to.

  “You want tea?” he asked.

  “Sounds wonderful.” She watched as he poured her a cup from a steaming pot on the table near the window, then arranged it on a tray with several other items. “Is that breakfast?” she asked, incredulous. Living with a soldier might have its compensations after all.

  “Breakfast for you.” He set the tray down on her lap. There was toast and butter, a boiled egg, rashers—“I’ve already eaten.”

  She gazed up at him in astonishment. “For goodness sake, how long have you been up?”

  “A couple of hours.”

  “It’s not even dawn yet! Are you mad?”

  A shuttered look passed over his face. “I don’t sleep much these days.”

  “Obviously not.” She sipped her tea. “I do hope you won’t be waking me before dawn every morning.”

  “It depends on the circumstances,” he said tersely. “But while we’re traveling, you can count on it.” As she began to eat, he walked over to a wardrobe and removed a muslin gown, a petticoat, and a wool cloak, which he came back to toss down on the bed. “You can wear these.”

  His matter-of-fact manner and cursory commands were beginning to annoy her. “Can I really?” she said sarcastically.

  He misunderstood her comment. “It should fit. I told the innkeeper’s wife I would pay her well if she could find a gown that would, and she said she had. But I couldn’t get shoes to fit you, so you’re stuck with your evening slippers.”

  “Where did you get the money for all this: the wedding, the inn room, the clothes?”

  He looked insulted. “I receive a salary, like any other American officer.”

  Oh, dear, now she’d pricked his pride, and even she knew that a man’s pride was a delicate thing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “I can afford to keep a wife, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  “I’m sure you can.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “But the night we met, you said that the money you’d once possessed had vanished. So can you blame me for assuming that your funds are rather…restricted?”

  A muscle worked in his jaw. “I only meant I didn’t have a fortune. But I manage well enough.”

  Buttering her toast, she tried to appear casual as she broached what could prove a delicate subject. “There is always my fortune—”

  “No.” Anger flashed over his features. “We’re not touching that.”

  “Whyever not?”

  His gaze bore into her, black as obsidian and just as unrelenting. “Until I’m sure of how your stepmother came by her money, we’re not taking your dowry. For all I know, every penny of it belongs to the navy.”

  “Only if Dolly’s guilty,” she protested, setting down her toast uneaten.

  “If she isn’t, and the money is a legitimate legacy from her previous husband, then we’ll discuss it.”

  Pushing the tray aside, she left the bed and tugged on her chemise. “What do you mean, we’ll discuss it?”

  “Once this mess with the F
riers is done, I may have a position waiting for me that pays well, certainly well enough for me to support a family. I don’t need your money.”

  She sensed she was treading shaky ground, but it was probably best to discuss this immediately, while they could be rational about it, rather than later during some crisis when they couldn’t.

  She drew on her drawers. “Whether you need it or not, you have it, so it seems foolish not to use it.” When he bristled, she added hastily, “I don’t doubt, Lucas, that you can afford to keep a wife and family very comfortably—but what harm can there be in using my money to help pay for some niceties?”

  “You’ll learn to make do with my income, Amelia, and that’s final.” He went to a knapsack that he’d apparently brought with him and pulled out a knife, which he stuck inside his coat somewhere.

  With quick, angry motions, she tied on her garters. “Why should I?”

  He paused to glower at her. “Because I say so. I’m your husband, and I’ll be master of my house. Or do they not teach that to you English ladies?”

  “Oh, they teach it very well,” she shot back. “Why do you think I haven’t married until now?”

  That seemed to bring him up short. Threading his fingers through his hair, he muttered a coarse oath. “I’m only saying it’s better if you learn to live like you don’t have the endless funds you’re used to having at your disposal.”

  “Endless funds!” Her blood rising, she marched up to him and poked him in the chest. “I’ll have you know, Lucas Winter, that until Dolly came along, my father and I barely had enough funds to put food on the table. When I was growing up and we lived in a cottage, he supported us by writing articles for gentlemen’s magazines. When I was twelve, Grandpapa died, and Papa inherited the entailed estate. He did not inherit any money because there wasn’t any. And while Papa spent his time reading about crops and struggling to improve the estate so it would support itself, I managed the household as frugally as a twelve-year-old can.”