To Seduce a Scoundrel (26 page)

“You’re not planning on hitting me, too?” Allred asked cautiously.

“You’re not planning on insulting her again?” Ambrose’s tone was sharp, dangerous.

Allred’s features hardened. “When you asked me to spare her reputation, were you threatening me?”

“No, I was asking a favor. Finchley’s been begging for my fist since he started carrying on about this wager like a stallion after a mare.”

Allred looked from Ambrose to Philippa. “Just as you’ve been rutting after each other.” His eyes lit, and he stared at Philippa in shock. “
Were
you trying to trap me into marriage? Because he won’t marry you?” His face paled. “God, are you carrying his bastard?”

Philippa wildly shook her head. “No, no,
no
. There is nothing between us. At least nothing beyond what happened here. Which was a mistake. A terrible, thoughtless mistake.” She glanced at Ambrose. His face was hard, stoic. His gaze was fixed on Allred.

Allred straightened his spine. “I’ve no cause to believe you, but I’m enough of a gentleman to let the matter lie. Do not expect Finchley to do the same.” Then he turned and quit the tack room.

Philippa watched his retreat and pressed her hand to her mouth lest a sob escape. He’d been less than gallant, but what did she expect? She’d done him a terrible wrong. And for what? A few minutes of bliss?

No, it had been more than that. What she felt for Ambrose was a bone-deep need that had blocked everything else from her mind—propriety, commitment, consideration of anyone but herself. It was terrifying in its magnitude and in its similarity to her mother.

Ambrose picked up his coat and drew it on. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

Philippa paused in buttoning her jacket over her ruined shirt. “I shouldn’t have kissed you back.” Her fingers shook as she worked to push each button into its hole.

“I didn’t know you were betrothed.”

She looked up at him. “Would it have mattered?”

His gaze was full of anguish. “It would’ve to me.”

She stared at him a moment, her heart thudding in response to the dark emotion in his eyes. He turned away.

With shaking hands, she secured the last button and pulled the top edges of her shirt together, making sure she was as decently covered as possible. “He only asked me yesterday, and I didn’t feel right about it. Then I saw you here and realized I couldn’t marry him. But that doesn’t excuse what I did.”

“What
we
did. You are not alone in this.” His words gave her a bit of comfort. “I’ll marry you.”

She jerked her gaze to his. Did she really want that? Did
he
really want that? “I know you don’t want to marry, but why not?” She turned toward him, hoping for once he might give her a direct answer. “You’re a viscount. You should beget an heir.”

Her words stirred no reaction. “What I should do is not often what I choose to do. Which is only one of the several reasons you probably shouldn’t marry me. I’d make a terrible husband. I’m thoughtless, selfish, and I haven’t the slightest notion how to love. Nor do I want to learn. You deserve better than that.”

“You’re not selfish or thoughtless. You never would’ve tried to save my reputation—or my life—at Lockwood House if you were those things.”

He arched a brow. “Are you forgetting I seduced my brother’s fiancée? Or that I just publicly ruined you?”

“We were carried away.” A paltry excuse. They’d both behaved selfishly.

His lips flattened into a grim line. “What I did is indefensible.” He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “But if you want me to marry you, I will.”

That wasn’t the proposal she’d dreamed of either.

She wanted him—at least physically, but what about emotionally? Whether she loved him or not, he’d just said he couldn’t love her and didn’t even want to try. Despite the scandal she was facing, she was unwilling to chance an unhappy marriage.

Saxton burst into the tack room with a furious glower directed at Ambrose. “What the devil have you done?”

“Ah, Saxton,” Ambrose said in a deceptively serene voice. “Will you arrange a carriage to take Philippa back to London? She won’t be returning to the party.”

He was still working to protect her. And she was grateful. She couldn’t face anyone now.

“Tell me what happened first,” Saxton demanded.

Ambrose gave Saxton an equally intimidating stare. “Philippa needs to leave. Have her things sent later. Just get her out of here now.”

Saxton finally looked at her. He pursed his lips and shook his head. How his pity stung. She’d become
that poor girl
. He returned his frigid gaze to Ambrose. “I assume you’ll make this right.”

Ambrose sent her a questioning look. “I offered to.”

If only Ambrose’s proposal had been driven by love or affection instead of obligation. She wouldn’t marry based on that. She gave Saxton a level stare. “I don’t believe we’ll suit.”

Ambrose’s eyes widened briefly. Then he looked down at the floor as the side of his mouth curved up. It wasn’t an amused half-smile, but one of self-deprecation.

Saxton turned startled eyes to her. “Don’t be foolish, Philippa.”

Elevating her chin, she attempted to make her gaze as frost-laden as Saxton’s. “Was I foolish when I agreed to make it known the announcement of our marriage last fall was a mistake?” Saxton flinched, and she almost smiled. “No. I did it because I didn’t want to marry you. I didn’t love you, and you didn’t love me. The same is true with Sevrin.” Her chest felt heavy, and her eyes stung. Unfortunately, this situation wasn’t the same. She’d been falling in love with Ambrose. She thrust her emotions away. “What happened here was regrettable—and forgettable. Saxton, do fetch me a coach as I’d like to escape Sevrin’s presence as quickly as possible.”

Head high, and without looking at Ambrose, she turned and strode from the room—and didn’t stop until she reached the other end of the stable.

She was vaguely aware of grooms rushing to ready a coach. In the meantime, she stayed in the shadows and didn’t look toward the house. She imagined people crowding out on the terrace, clamoring for a glimpse of the fallen debutante.
That poor girl
.

Alone now, she allowed her emotions to return. Her body shook, and her throat itched with unshed tears. Her head began to pound, and heat flooded her cheeks. She wouldn’t cry. Not now. Not yet.

There’d be time for tears later. A lifetime.

Chapter Sixteen

ONE week and nearly three hundred miles hadn’t dimmed Ambrose’s regret. Regret for both Philippa’s downfall and because they’d been interrupted. When he wasn’t brooding over the ways he would’ve made love to her in that tack room, he tried to focus on fighting. Unfortunately, for the first time in five years, violence failed to distract him from his lust.

A perplexing problem since he now found himself at Beckwith, precisely where that lust had caused
his
downfall.

He looked at his sleeping coach mate, Thomas Ackley. He ought to wake him, but Ambrose needed a few minutes of solitude as they passed Beckwith’s gatehouse.

The coach rambled up the drive of his centuries-old converted castle. Once, long ago, it had been an impressive fortress overlooking the bay and protecting Cornwall from invaders crossing the sea. Now it was a collection of ruined and crumbling structures, including the manor house that had been renovated from the living quarters in the north wall during the sixteenth century.

Their father had wanted to build a new manor house, but the estate hadn’t been profitable enough to undertake such a project. Ambrose hadn’t accepted that. Why couldn’t they make it profitable? He’d returned from Oxford with plans for increasing their sheep herd and thus their wool production. He’d done a decent job too, but regrettably their father hadn’t lived to see it. He’d died while Ambrose was at school. Nigel—the new viscount—however, had stood by and watched while Ambrose single-handedly turned the estate around.

Single-handedly
.

Why hadn’t he ever solicited Nigel’s input? Why had he been so eager to manage everything himself? Because their father—a man Ambrose had admired—had always encouraged him. “Ambrose, you’re the future of Beckwith.” He’d even gone so far as to say, “You should’ve been the heir. If only the fever that took your mother had taken…” He hadn’t uttered the rest, but the meaning had been clear. If the fever had claimed Nigel, he would’ve been spared his sickly, wretched existence.

But not even that was wholly accurate. Nigel had been sickly, but not wretched. He’d been fairly ineffectual at Beckwith, but when their father died, he’d been eager to take up his position in the House of Lords. Not that Ambrose had minded—he’d been happy to have Nigel remove himself to London, thus leaving Ambrose in total control of Beckwith. Just as Ambrose had always expected.

Until Nigel had returned with a new attitude—that he would run Beckwith. To everyone’s surprise, he’d also brought a fiancée, the overtly flirtatious daughter of a merchant, Lettice Chandler. Upset with his brother’s sudden desire to remove Ambrose from his managerial position, Ambrose had returned Lettice’s attentions. Nigel had taken Ambrose’s birthright—or what he’d been led to believe was his birthright—and Ambrose had selfishly sought revenge.

Because Lettice was staying at Beckwith, their affair was easy to conduct. And she hadn’t been an unschooled virgin. In fact, she’d drawn him to most of the places in which they’d had sex—sometimes within earshot of the servants. When her advances became bolder—touching Ambrose overlong at the dinner table, casting openly admiring glances, accompanying him on his afternoon rides—Nigel grew suspicious. Ambrose knew the affair needed to end, and indeed he’d grown rather tired of the game. But he’d indulged himself one last time, and Nigel had paid for it.

One afternoon, Ambrose and Lettice planned to ride out to one of their favorite spots, a vacant cottage on the periphery of Beckwith’s property. As they’d left the house, Nigel had watched them progress across the keep to the stables. Uneasy, Ambrose had suggested Lettice remain at Beckwith, but she’d cajoled and promised a sinfully decadent afternoon. She’d convinced him Nigel didn’t know, and even if he did, why would he care? Unlike Ambrose, he hadn’t shown the slightest interest in bedding her, a fact that made Lettice pout. Furthermore, it was unlikely Nigel would follow them. He rarely rode because he’d never mastered the sport.

In the end, Ambrose hadn’t been able to disappoint her—or his prick—and they’d set out for the cottage. Immersed in her skillful ministrations, Ambrose hadn’t heard his brother arrive on horseback. When the cottage door opened and revealed Nigel’s devastated countenance, Ambrose had shriveled both inside and out. He practically shoved Lettice from where she knelt before him and drew on his breeches before following his brother outside.

Thinking back, he was more horrified than ever at his cavalier behavior. He’d always done as he pleased—such as managing Beckwith—and Nigel had let him. Until Nigel had returned from London intent on fulfilling his role as viscount, which meant taking control of Beckwith away from Ambrose. Ambrose had been more than angry; he’d been out for revenge. And Lettice had given him the perfect avenue.

Though he might not have done it if Lettice hadn’t made it so easy. Not to diminish his fault in the matter, but refusing her would have required self-discipline, as well as a will to ignore his impulses that Ambrose simply hadn’t possessed. He’d wanted her. She’d wanted him. Nothing and no one else had mattered.

Nigel’s hurt and outrage had satisfied the part of Ambrose that was jealous of his brother’s position. However, remorse quickly worked its way into Ambrose’s mind. He’d tried to assuage Nigel by assuring him Lettice meant nothing to him. That had only made things worse, prompting Nigel to respond, “She means something to me and that’s why you did it.”

And then the most shocking thing of all had happened. Nigel had pulled a gun from his saddle bag. He’d pointed it at Ambrose. “You think I’m stupid. As weak-minded as I am weak-bodied. But I guessed the truth. I came here to demand satisfaction.”

Ambrose had shaken his head. “I don’t have a pistol.”

“Then I’ll just shoot you.”

“You wouldn’t. Please, stop for a moment, Nigel.”

He’d fired. Searing pain had exploded in Ambrose’s shoulder, driving him to his knees. Nigel had rushed forward, his face paling as he realized what he’d done. Then a scream had sounded from behind Ambrose. Nigel had looked beyond Ambrose, and his features had hardened into a mask of despair. Lettice had donned clothing and ran to Ambrose’s side.

Ambrose could see the scene as if it played before him now. Nigel had wiped his hand across his nose—an achingly familiar action Ambrose recalled from their childhood—and turned. Only he hadn’t gone to his horse—a placid mare. He’d gone to Ambrose’s horse, Orpheus, awkwardly mounted, and set off at a reckless pace.

Struggling to his feet, Ambrose had called after him to stop. Nigel couldn’t handle Orpheus. Lettice had begged Ambrose to come into the cottage so she could see to his wound. Hot blood flowed over his shoulder, down his chest and arm, but he hadn’t cared. He’d raced to Lettice’s mount, because it was faster than the mare Nigel had ridden.