Seducing The Viscount

by Deborah Raleigh

  “We all grow older, Ian, and hopefully wiser. I do not wish for ill blood between us.”

  “I see. So now you wish to be a father to me?” he demanded, still certain this must be some evil plot.

  “Yes.”

  “Rather late in the day, I fear.” Moving toward the fireplace, Ian directed the conversation down a path that might offer valuable information. “I already had a father who I loved and respected. A gentleman who never judged or condemned me for my occasional misdeeds.”

  Norrington straightened, his expression unreadable. “I suppose you refer to Dunnington?”

  “Yes.” Ian dipped his head. “Giving me into his care was the kindest thing you ever did for me, although I do not suppose I thought so at the time. I recall clinging to Aunt Ella and bawling like a frightened child.”

  “You were young and quite attached to Ella. It is not surprising that you were afraid. Indeed, it should have been odd if you were not.”

  Ian caught his breath at his father’s unexpectedly kind words. Over the years, Ian had recalled that tearful parting with a hint of embarrassment, convincing himself that his father must have been shamed by his tantrum. Instead, it seemed as if Norrington possessed genuine sympathy for the young lad who had been taken from the only home he had ever known.

  “Thank you.” Ian gave a slow shake of his head, forcing himself to recall his purpose in joining his father. “Do you know, I have often wondered how you discovered Dunnington. Raoul, Fredrick, and I were, after all, his first students. How did you know he intended to begin a school?”

  There was no mistaking the sudden tension that gripped his father’s lean body, or the wariness that hardened his expression.

  Odd. It was hardly an unreasonable question.

  “We…have mutual acquaintances,” he at last confessed.

  He was hiding something. Something to do with his connection with the old tutor.

  “Dunnington was from Surrey?”

  “No, we met in London.”

  “I would hardly have thought you would cross paths with a mere tutor,” Ian drawled. “You certainly do not belong to the same clubs.”

  A log snapped in the fireplace at the same moment Norrington’s glass slipped from his fingers to shatter against the Persian carpet.

  For a moment Ian was uncertain which of them was more shocked by the older man’s clumsiness. For God’s sake, the nobleman was one of the most graceful men that Ian had ever encountered. Certainly he was never so gauche as to break his Waterford crystal.

  So what the devil had caused the rare gaffe?

  “No…” His father visibly gathered his shaken composure. “No, of course we do not. Foolish question.”

  Ian suspected it was more a disturbing than a foolish question. A pity he hadn’t the least notion why it troubled his father.

  “Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you,” he murmured.

  Norrington frowned, his fingers toying with the diamond stickpin that glittered in the folds of his snowy white cravat.

  “You did not startle me. Nothing more than an unfortunate accident.”

  “As you say.” Ian briefly glanced at the shards of crystal spread across the floor before lifting his head to meet his father’s gaze. “You did not tell me which acquaintances that you have in common with Dunnington.”

  This time his father was prepared. “It was all a very long time ago, but I believe we met at the Botanical Society,” he said smoothly.

  “Really?” Ian did not believe him for a moment. “Dunnington had an interest in flowers?”

  “Mr. Dunnington possessed an interest in everything, as I recall. He claimed a tutor needed to be capable of speaking to his students upon every subject.”

  Well, Ian could not argue with that. Dunnington had not only possessed the avid curiosity of all true scholars, but he was wise enough to realize that there were many different paths to learning.

  “Yes.” A surge of fond amusement briefly lightened his mood. “I do not believe he had ever touched a card in his life before taking me in as his student. After my arrival, he spent his nights teaching himself everything from faro to whist.”

  Something that might have been envy darkened his father’s eyes before it was firmly hidden beneath a perfunctory smile.

  “I am happy that you had someone to nurture your dreams. That is important for a young boy.” There was a brief pause, as if Norrington were struggling against a dark, unpleasant memory. “Far more important than most people understand.”

  Once again Ian was bothered by a twinge of unwelcome sympathy. Devil take it, Viscount Norrington was the last man who needed pity. Unless being rich, powerful, intelligent, handsome, and artistically talented had somehow become reasons for condolences.

  “Well, I am uncertain if Dunnington intended for me to become a gamester,” he muttered, shifting his feet with an uneasy suspicion the wounds he carried were nothing in comparison to those of his father.

  “Perhaps not, but he did manage to teach you to be self-sufficient and capable of fending for yourself. An achievement that is not to be taken lightly.”

  Ian regarded his father with a growing bewilderment. “I thought you disapproved of my ramshackle lifestyle? You have often warned that the gambling and wenching would lead me to a bad end.”

  “It is hardly a lifestyle that leads to a long, healthy life, although my father would have been quite proud of you.” A wry smile twisted the older man’s lips. “You are far more his son than mine.”

  Ian gave a short laugh. “Somehow that does not seem a very high compliment. Indeed, I believe I am quite insulted.”

  “I am sorry, that was not my intent. We should all be allowed to live our lives as we see fit.”

  “As do you?” he prodded.

  “Me?” There was a brief ripple of bitter amusement before his expression became shuttered, effectively hiding his emotions from Ian’s searching gaze. “No. There are some paths closed even to a viscount.”

  “I cannot imagine any path that would not be opened with enough wealth and power,” Ian challenged.

  From the depths of the house a gong echoed down the corridors. With obvious relief that the encounter was at an end, Norrington crossed toward the door.

  “I will not detain you any longer, Ian. You must change for dinner.”

  “A moment, please,” Ian demanded, taking a step forward.

  Norrington came to a grudging halt, his hand on the doorknob as if needing the comfort of knowing he could bolt at a moment’s notice.

  “Yes?”

  “I have one question,” Ian confessed, swallowing his considerable pride. As much as he hated asking anything of this man, he had spent his entire life plagued by one question. This might very well be his one and only opportunity to discover the answer.

  “And what is that?” Norrington demanded, his expression guarded.

  “Was my mother merely a meaningless body in your bed, or did you care for her at all?”

  There was a long, painful silence. Long enough that Ian steeled himself to be ignored. It would not be the first occasion his father had offered a cold rebuff.

  Then, without warning, his father gave a slow nod of his head. “Actually, I loved her very much, Ian.”

  Ian released a breath he did not even know that he was holding. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice thick with a genuine gratitude. “It’s stupid that it matters….”

  “But it does?”

  “Yes. Yes, it does.”

  “Then know that she will always hold a place in my heart.”

  With his soft words delivered, Norrington slipped from the room and closed the door behind him.

  Left on his own, Ian moved to pour himself another shot of whiskey.

  During his journey to Surrey, his greatest fear had been expiring of boredom. There were few things more tedious than spending day after day in the country, especially when he was to be stuck in the marble mausoleum called Rosehill.

&
nbsp; And not even the anticipation of uncovering his father’s sins could offer more than a vague hope for entertainment.

  Boredom…

  His crack of laughter echoed through the silent room.

  Chapter 7

  Despite her best efforts, Mercy found herself lingering in the library long after she should have been in bed.

  It was perfectly absurd.

  Ian Breckford might have made an appearance at dinner and even have stayed long enough to play a game of chess with his aunt before bolting for the village pub, but as far as Mercy was concerned he might as well have been half a world away.

  Never in her life had she ever been quite so thoroughly ignored. There had not been a word, or a touch, or even a glance the entire night. Which meant that it had to be intentional. No one could so assiduously avoid another without a great deal of effort.

  Still, she found herself ridiculously hurt when she at last conceded defeat and climbed the stairs to her chambers.

  Did the aggravating man fear she might force herself upon him at the dinner table? For heaven’s sake, he had already made it obvious he did not consider her worthy to capture his jaded attentions. Did he have to rub her nose in his indifference?

  Once in her rooms, she changed into the sensible night rail that was beginning to fray about the hem and brushed her hair into a tidy braid. Then, rather than climbing into her bed, she studied her reflection in the mirror.

  In the flickering candlelight she could make out the pale oval of her face and the dark slant of her eyes. Nothing remarkable, of course. But surely not hideous, either.

  So why was she continually overlooked, disregarded, or outright rejected by gentlemen?

  What the devil was the matter with her?

  Ignoring the knowledge that her father would be deeply disapproving of her display of vanity, Mercy continued to search her reflection for her fatal flaw, nearly missing the soft tap on her door as she remained lost in her broodings.

  There was no mistaking, however, when the door was abruptly pushed open to reveal the gentleman currently plaguing her thoughts.

  “Ian.” She awkwardly surged to her feet, her gaze widening at the sight of his disheveled appearance.

  Sometime during the evening he had lost his cravat as well as his elegant jacket and waistcoat. Now he was attired in nothing more than a thin linen shirt that revealed a disturbing amount of his wide, smooth chest and a pair of breeches that clung to the hard muscles of his thighs with an unnerving precision.

  Her stomach clenched with a giddy awareness as she lifted her gaze to take in the tousled raven curls and the shadowed line of his jaw.

  He looked raw and dangerous and utterly delectable.

  “I saw the light beneath your door….”

  “For heaven’s sake come in or out before anyone notices you,” she interrupted, annoyed by her ready reaction to his arrival. It seemed gruesomely unfair that she should burn with need when he was near, and yet he could remain indifferent.

  Seemingly oblivious to the sharp edge in her voice, Ian entered the room and shut the door firmly behind him. Then, leaning against the wooden panes, he regarded her with an oddly muddled gaze.

  “Sweet, sweet Mercy.”

  With a frown, Mercy moved forward, able to catch the scent of whiskey on his breath as she halted directly before him.

  “You are foxed.”

  “No, I am not.” He swayed, his hand grasping the doorknob to keep from pitching forward onto his nose. “I am three sheets to the wind, my dear. Quite different from being foxed.”

  “I suppose I must take your word for it. You are the expert, after all,” she muttered, grasping his arm as he once again swayed. “Have a seat before you knock us both to the ground.”

  Without warning, he gave a sharp tug with his arm, knocking her off balance so she stumbled against him. Before she could recover, he had her pinned to his body, his arms wrapped about her waist in a ruthless grip.

  “I do not want a seat. I want you beneath me on that bed as I part your legs and…” His eyes screwed shut, as if he were in actual pain. “Christ, you are driving me mad. I should have stayed at the pub. There were any number of women who were eager enough to ease my ache.”

  The momentary delight at being held so tightly in his arms was swiftly doused at his less-than-flattering words. Lifting her hands, she placed them flat against his chest and arched back to glare into his aggravatingly handsome face.

  “No doubt,” she hissed. “Why didn’t you stay if they were so eager?”

  “Because they were not you.” His eyes snapped open, the whiskey gold gaze sliding over her flushed face before lowering to take in the thin night rail that did little to cover her slender curves. A sinful heat followed in the path of his gaze, searing over her skin and making her shudder with need. “It did not matter how beautiful or willing or skilled they might be, I remained as limp as an overcooked noodle.” His expression was hard with self-derision. “It has to be you. Only you.”

  With a violence that shocked her to the very core, Mercy curled her hands into fists and smacked them against his chest. It was not that she could actually hurt the man. She did not doubt that her blows caused more pain to her hands than to his rock-hard chest. Still, it was utterly uncharacteristic of her to lash out like a common fishwife.

  “You do not want me,” she hissed. “You have made that clear enough for even a simpleton to comprehend.”

  “Not want you?” With a sharp laugh, he grasped her wrists, easily halting her foolish attack. Then, with a low groan, he bent his head to brush his lips over the pulse pounding at her temple. “There are moments when I fear that if I do not have you soon I will shatter into a thousand pieces.”

  She stilled, her body humming with excitement at his light caress. “Then why…?”

  His lips moved to explore the curve of her cheek, his hot breath sending a rash of prickles over her sensitive skin.

  “I am not completely depraved, Miss Simpson, or at least I was not until stumbling over a delightful wood sprite who will not leave me in peace.”

  She wanted to be offended by his accusation. He made it seem as if he had no choice in forcing his way into her room and wrapping her in his arms as if he would never release her.

  Unfortunately she could barely think beyond the sensation of his knowing lips as they nibbled a path to the corner of her mouth.

  “You were the one to seek me out on this occasion,” she rasped.

  His hands splayed against the low curve of her back, squeezing her between his parted legs until she could feel the hard length of his erection pressed against her hip.

  “Because it does not matter if I am in a pub a mile away or in London, I cannot get you out of my mind.” With a groan, he plundered her mouth with a savage kiss, his tongue thrusting between her parted lips as if he were desperate for the taste of her. At last he eased the hard pressure to mutter his words of frustration. “Your scent…the feel of that satin skin…the taste of your lips…”

  Mercy was forced to clutch at his shoulders as her knees went weak. She felt as if she had been tossed in the midst of a maelstrom that threatened to drown her in sensation.

  “Ian,” she breathed. “Wait.”

  “Wait?” He gave the lobe of her ear a sharp nip. “I have bloody well waited for hours. Hell, I am beginning to suspect that I have waited my entire life.”

  She struggled to think as his tongue traced the line of her throat. This was precisely what she had desired…what she still desired…but it was all happening so swiftly she could barely keep up with the emotions battering through her.

  “What do you want from me?”

  He deliberately rocked his arousal against her, his mouth skimming down to the line of her bodice.

  “You are not that naïve.”

  A soft groan was wrenched from her throat as his lips found the upper curve of her breast, seeming to savor the feel of her skin. Already her nipples were hard and aching fo
r his touch. She had never dreamed that a man’s lips on the sensitive buds could cause such exquisite pleasure.

  “I do not consider it naïve to presume a gentleman who cannot so much as glance in my direction is indifferent to me.”

  He muttered a curse as he raised his hands to tug the narrow bands of her night rail off her shoulders, his eyes glowing with a ravaging heat as the material drifted down to pool at her feet.

  “Only a gentleman desperate to be buried deep inside you would ever go to such an effort to avoid you, sweet Mercy,” he rasped, his hands busily tugging her hair free of its braid. “If you knew how hard it has been to keep from ripping the clothes from your delectable body and having my way with you, you would be quaking in terror.”

  Mercy was quaking. But terror had nothing to do with her trembling.

  No, it was the hand that he tangled in her tumbled curls as he sharply angled her head back to meet his demanding kiss, and the pained rasp of his breath.

  Even in her innocence she realized that this was not the smooth seduction of a practiced rake. There was nothing polished in his desperate touch or the shudders that wracked his body.

  The knowledge was far more erotic than any amount of skill, and, tossing aside her lingering hurt at his earlier rejection, Mercy wrapped her arms around his neck.

  She was drowning in a delicious heat despite the chill that brushed over her bare skin. A heat and excitement that she could feel to the tips of her toes.

  Ian growled deep in his throat, his tongue thrusting with a slow rhythm that mimicked the same thrust of his hips. Mercy felt an ache bloom deep in the pit of her stomach.

  Instinctively she arched closer, the rasp of his clothing an unwelcome barrier to the hardness of his body. She needed…dear heavens, she needed something. Something only Ian Breckford could offer.

  “Oh,” she gasped as his lips wrenched from her mouth to dip downward and close about a throbbing nipple. “Oh…God.”

  “Not God, sweet Mercy,” he muttered, abruptly whirling until she was pressed against the wall. “Not even close.”