Sweet Scandal

by Scott, Scarlett

  His mouth was on her neck now, feasting, licking, sucking. He should take care not to leave a mark, but his need for her was like a locomotive barreling through him and he couldn’t control it.

  “Helen,” he said her name against her skin, a benediction. “Sweet Helen.”

  There were surely a hundred tiny buttons on her utilitarian gown, beginning at the hollow of her throat and ending at the nip of her waist. His fingers found the first button, the second, the third. He peeled away her layers.

  “Please,” she said softly.

  He knew what she pleaded for. His own body thundered with the same need for completion. Had it been only last night that he had been inside her? It felt somehow a lifetime ago for the way it affected him. More buttons opened. He took care not to rip them away no matter how much he longed to. She could not return to the Whitney household with so much as a hair out of place. He would not bring shame upon her, not for the world.

  Which made him feel the heavy weight of dread now mingling with desire. Wasn’t he shaming her now, by keeping the truth from her? By taking what he wanted, what he needed, and leaving her behind? The devil inside him silenced his conscience for lust was a more powerful motivator than good had ever been straight from the days of Adam and Eve.

  This was, after all, a mutual desire between them. They were equal partners. Her hands skimmed down his back to his buttocks and squeezed. He groaned, angling his rigid cock into her skirts, the only barrier keeping him from where he so desperately wanted to be. It was all the prodding he required to push past any lingering misgivings and go the rest of the way.

  One more time, he told himself as they moved as one to remove each other’s clothes, the trappings of their civility. Beneath the starch and stays, they were animals starving for the decadence of pleasure, the fulfillment of completion. He wanted her so badly that he would do anything to have her. Anything. To hell with honor. Most of the civilized world believed it impossible for a bastard to possess it anyway.

  His jacket, waistcoat, and shirt fell to the floor. Her dress puddled around her on the carpet. He made short work of her petticoat, corset cover, drawers, and corset. Her chemise was nearly transparent. The lush peaks of her breasts were discernible, the hardened pebbles of her nipples poking the thin fabric. He took fistfuls of it and hauled it over her head until it too was gone and she stood before him gloriously naked but for stockings.

  His breathing shallow, cock as hard as coal, he stood back to gaze upon her, committing each gorgeous curve to memory. She was tall though not nearly as tall as he, with long, tapered legs, full hips that led to a narrow waist and large, full breasts. More than a handful. With her hair trailing down her back and over her shoulders, she looked like Venus rising from the sea, only more breathtaking.

  On a low, primitive growl, he caught her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. Mine, was all he could think. He deposited her with care and shucked the rest of his clothes before lowering himself onto her. Her skin was smooth and hot where they touched. He skimmed her calves with his palms, untied her stockings, and then traced higher, over her knees to her softly rounded hips.

  “Open for me, sweetheart,” he commanded. And she did without hesitation, her legs falling apart so that he could see the sweet pink center of her. If this was to be their last time, he couldn’t deny either of them the pleasure of his tongue on her, inside her.

  He lowered his head and licked. She cried out, fingers threading through his hair. He cupped her bottom and angled her to him, sucking on the tender little pearl there. He used his teeth and she jerked. Ah, that was what she liked. How she liked it. He wanted her to come undone for him, again and again. She was already incredibly slick. As he sucked, he sank a finger deep inside her tight sheath and she bucked against him.

  This was what he wanted, her unravelling, losing all sense of inhibition, of time and place. He listened to her breathing, her cries, learning her. Just where to stroke with his tongue and his touch. She climaxed against him, her body shuddering with honeyed release, a soft rush of warm wetness on his fingers. He drew himself up and stared at her, her beautiful body flushed with pleasure, breasts full and high, head tilted back, lips open.

  An odd sensation rushed through him. Something unfamiliar. Heady as lust, potent as pleasure. But somehow foreign. Mine, he thought again as he drank in the sight of her, drank in the sight because it was the best goddamn thing he’d ever seen. How could he let her go after this? How could he ever let her go? He lowered his head like a supplicant and pressed reverent kisses to her mound, the jut of her hip bone, her belly’s curve, her nipple. He could spend the rest of his life learning her, inside and out, and still not be satisfied.

  He kissed his way back up to her waiting mouth and then there wasn’t space in his mind left for any more thought. All he could do was act. He thrust inside her as slowly as he could, mindful that just the day before had been her first time. But the moment she hooked her legs around his hips and brought him deeper inside her wet heat, he was lost. He pumped into her, his lips never leaving hers, his fingers between their bodies stimulating the pearl he had so recently sucked. She came hard and fast, tightening on him with so much intensity that he lost control. Before he could withdraw, he exploded, spending himself deep inside her.

  Damn it all, he thought as the world returned to him and he was once more aware of the light in the room, the sparse furnishings, the inferior quality of the bed linens. He had never spent himself inside a woman, not once. As a bastard, he took great care not to visit the same fate upon any innocent child. And yet he had done so with Helen twice. He rolled off her and lay on his side, disgusted with himself and yet also filled with a vast sense of…contentment. Yes, that was it. That was the strange sensation unfurling in his chest.

  Helen smiled softly up at him and caressed his jaw. “Thank you, Levi. For everything.”

  He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. He couldn’t bring himself to respond past the twin knots of fear and self-loathing forming in his throat.

  Helen must have fallen into a peaceful, sated doze, for she awoke with a start. Disoriented, she blinked and cast a glance about her unfamiliar surroundings. She was alone, she realized, in a rumpled bed. A bed that had been meant for Levi’s employees. Oh dear heavens. She should be very ashamed of herself, she was sure, for what she had done. But as she lay there completely nude beneath nothing more than a sheet, her body humming with the aftereffects of the passion she was yet a novice to, she wasn’t ashamed at all.

  She felt, in a word, liberated. Yes, liberated. She felt free for the very first time in her life. There was no one to judge her, no one hovering over her shoulder to make certain that she observed all the proprieties and maintained her decorum. She had never, in thirty years of life, been beneath any roof other than that of family or family friend. She had never tasted independence. Had never owned anything of her own aside from the pin money her father bestowed upon her or the sometime payments she received from the Beacon for her articles, paltry funds she had instantly diverted to the cause. She had never even thought, having been born the daughter of an earl, that any other choices existed for her.

  Now she wondered for the first time if there wasn’t something more in store for her. Perhaps a little rebellion was in order. Lord knew her sisters had followed their hearts, and they had escaped relatively unscathed. Perhaps life wasn’t meant to be lived the way she had lived it, watching everyone else pass her by. Had she been punishing herself without realizing it?

  Being with Levi had made her aware of how she had allowed herself to be controlled by others for so many years. It had all begun with Wainross and Bingley that horrid day. Her brother had been disgusted to find his friend attempting to force relations upon her. But he had judged her, and in some small way, though she had not wanted it to, his judgment had affected her. She had felt shamed and less worthy. Even though she had known she hadn’t done anything wrong, the scorn of her brother had made h
er feel as though she had. She’d lived her life in penance ever since.

  Unnecessarily.

  Making her own decisions, whether for good or ill, felt good. Felt right. Felt as if somehow, in some way, she was reclaiming the power and the decision that had been stolen from her.

  The door to the chamber opened to reveal Levi, bearing a tray. He was so gorgeous her heart hurt just looking at him. She wondered, for a fraction of a moment, if it would be so very bad to live this way always? Then she dashed such horrid thoughts away. She would not become any man’s kept woman. Not ever, regardless of the temptation he presented. It was only her own imperfect nature that made her entertain such an unworthy notion.

  But she could still give him her body, partake in these wicked delights with him, until…until when? Until what? Until he grew bored of her and returned to America? Until she grew resentful of him and wanted more than he was willing to give?

  She didn’t wish to think about any of that now, for Levi was striding toward her bearing delicacies, and she was suddenly famished. He was properly buttoned up, looking every inch the gentleman. Only his hair was slightly mussed from her fingers having sifted through the glorious strands, the sole sign of their lovemaking.

  He gave her a slow smile as he sat on the bed, the tray between them. “I thought you might be hungry.”

  Her stomach rumbled in a most undignified fashion just then. She pressed a hand to the bedclothes, flushing. “Perhaps some sustenance would be in order. Have you any idea of the time? It seems to me that it must be late and I do need to return to the Whitney residence before anyone grows suspicious about how long I’ve been gone.”

  Yes, for all that her body vibrated with pleasure and she lay abed entertaining fanciful notions about him, she was still Lady Helen, devoted spinster. She had sisters and parents and friends to answer for, people she loved who she dared not hurt. He had to return to American. His heart belonged to his business. This ill-fated idyll would necessarily come to an end.

  “Half past four,” he answered, sitting beside her on the bed, the tray of delicacies between them. Tiny sandwiches, tarts, and scones tempted her. Dear heavens, he even had lemonade, which would ever be one of her weaknesses. Everything looked delicious.

  Half past four. They had time yet. She accepted a scone. “How did you get these?” It seemed an odd question to ask after all they had shared, but her heart and her mind were equally upended, and somehow focusing on the mundane seemed far easier than addressing anything else.

  “I had my man get them.” Levi frowned. “Do you not like them? I have it on good authority that the establishment selling them is one of the best here in London.”

  Helen took a bite. Heaven. It was fluffy and rich and everything a proper scone should be. “It is delicious. But your man, what must he think? Surely he cannot believe we are taking afternoon tea.”

  “He is paid handsomely not to think at all,” Levi responded, his tone grim. “You needn’t fear for your reputation. I will see to it that no one is the wiser. None of your fancy lords and ladies will ever know you’ve been sullied by the likes of me.”

  Was that what he thought of her? How could he, after their tender intimacies? She dropped the scone to the tray as though it were a hot coal. “You cannot sully the sullied,” she said tartly.

  He stroked her cheek then, his face unreadable. “You were never sullied, sweetheart. Never, do you understand?”

  No, she hadn’t been sullied by Wainross. But she had felt as though she had, had carried the weight and the guilt of it through her life for years. In that moment, bathed in sunshine and seated so near to Levi Storm, she felt completely free of her past. It hadn’t brought her low, hadn’t ruined her. It had shaped her, made her into herself. Imperfect and flawed, good and wicked, sister, daughter, lover, reformer. Stronger than she’d ever been.

  “For so long I felt as if I had been,” she said slowly, puzzling it out for him as much as for herself. “I thought I was to blame. I thought something must be wrong with me.”

  He bit out a curse. “Nothing is wrong with you, goddamn it. Nothing. You are pure and good and true.” He caught her hand and raised it to his lips for a fervent kiss. “Give me his name. I’ll hunt him down like the dog that he is.”

  “No.” She didn’t need a savior. She had been her own. “His name doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter.”

  “Which is precisely why I’d like to gut him like a cod.”

  He was bloodthirsty, her brash American. She smiled. “No, thank you.”

  “Or beat him to death with a sack of his own shit.”

  His crudeness wrung a laugh from her. No one had ever dared to speak so openly in her presence, and she found his temerity equal parts refreshing and shocking. “Tempting offer sir, but no. I have a feeling that the procuring of the…material for the sack might prove troubling.”

  He shrugged. “It depends on who is doing the procuring. But have it your way for now.”

  He hadn’t released her hand and his fingers tightened over hers. She didn’t want him to let go. She’d never had a champion before, apart from her sisters. His concern touched her heart. He touched her heart, this strong, forbidding man who was not as hard and cold as he would have the world believe. He cared about what had happened to her, and he cared about what would happen to the ladies at the House of Rest.

  “Stop looking at me that way,” he broke into her thoughts. “Hang it, you’re not wearing a stitch under there, and much as I would like to keep you here for the rest of this day and every day after, I can’t.”

  No, he couldn’t. And neither could she stay.

  But it was only half past four, and they had time.

  ust after dawn, Levi was back in his makeshift office at the Beacon. It was far smaller than the office that was still being stripped and repaired, but it suited him just fine nonetheless. He had always preferred, regardless of where in the world he happened to be, to rise before the sun and begin working in the peaceful solitude of the early morning before it sprung to life with his workers. He accomplished a great deal more when there was no one afoot to ask him questions. He disliked people requiring things of him, and it seemed they always did. Perhaps he was a solitary man, though he hadn’t meant to be.

  But this morning was different from most. This morning, he was poring over his business and engineering journals without even reading the words. This morning, there was an endless litany of questions raining down on him, and they all came from the same source.

  His damned conscience.

  What the hell was the matter with him? What the hell had he done?

  He had bedded Lady Helen. Repeatedly. She was a virtuous lady, a guest beneath his friend’s roof, and she could not have been further from the sort of woman one dallies with had she taken her vows and become a nun. He’d never intended for things to progress so far between them. The night of the ball had been madness. Yesterday had been… Christ, yesterday had been utter, selfish stupidity. And magnificent, but that was beside the point.

  He’d begun the day intending to tell Helen about Miss VanHorn, knowing he needed to unburden himself to her. But his every good intention had been swept away when Helen stood in the sunlight and they were completely alone and he’d begun taking down her hair. From that moment on, he’d been lost. He was still lost this morning, trying to reconcile his actions with the man he’d believed himself to be. A man of reason, a man of honor. The last shred of decency he maintained had kept him from going to her chamber again last night. He had resisted, but only by dissecting two of Jesse’s mantle clocks and then reassembling them.

  There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he had to tell her the truth today. He’d hinted at his obligations to her, but somehow the word “betrothed” had never fallen from his lips. She deserved his honesty. He’d thought he could let her go, but after yesterday, he didn’t know how. Didn’t think it possible.

  Damn it, he never should have touched Helen. Never should have r
ead her article or accompanied her to the House of Rest or kept her hat that first day. He never should have slid inside her sweet body or seen her with her hair wild down her back or realized how kind and giving a heart she possessed.

  But he had. And now, a decision loomed before him, vast and complex and with a complicated tangle of consequences. His impending marriage to Miss VanHorn was the equivalent of a pail of cold saltwater to the face. What once had seemed like an excellent idea, a facile way for him to cement his standing and enhance his business and wealth, now seemed as appealing as the open maw of a grave.

  He didn’t want to marry the girl, and yet her father was the largest investor in North Atlantic Electric. Breaking the engagement would undoubtedly deal a tremendous blow to his company. Perhaps even a death blow, unless he proved somehow able to free up enough of his own funds to pour into North Atlantic Electric’s coffers.

  And even if he should cry off, would Helen have him? She was far too good for him, that much was without question. It didn’t matter where he went, how much money he earned, how many successes or accolades he achieved in business—he would always be Levi Storm, a man who didn’t know his father, son of a whore. Even his surname was almost certainly not his, merely a whimsical notion that had taken his mother’s fancy one day. Helen was a blue-blooded lady to her core.

  But she was also compassionate, surprisingly so for a noblewoman of her station. Not only did she devote herself to the plight of London’s denizens, but she also hadn’t been shocked or repulsed by his revelation about his ma. Instead, she had been sweetly kind. Damn if it didn’t make him want her all the more. There was the crux of the matter. He didn’t just want Lady Helen in his bed. He respected her. Admired her mettle and her intelligence and her compassion even more than he appreciated her beauty. Lady Helen would be a fine wife, a woman he was more than proud to have by his side.