To Seduce a Scoundrel (35 page)

“Not terribly, especially if Lord Sevrin helps. And I’ve no doubt he will.”

Everyone commented on Ambrose’s helpfulness. He tried so hard to paint himself as an unworthy blackguard, but such sentiments only supported Philippa’s argument that he was a better man than he realized. “Lord Sevrin seems to do more than the usual landowner.”

“He always did, even before he was the viscount. Especially before.” Mrs. Lerner’s face pinked.

Philippa sought to put her at ease. “It’s all right. I’m aware of his lordship’s past…problems.”

Mrs. Lerner relaxed and sipped her tea. “We’re all right pleased he seems to have overcome that awful tragedy. We need him here, though I imagine it’s been difficult coming back.”

Philippa wouldn’t reveal how difficult. “I think so, but everyone has been so kind and welcoming.”

“We’re a close community. What happened was awful, but his lordship’s absence was far more troubling for us. I do hope he stays, as long as his duty allows.”

Philippa hoped so, too. In fact, she’d mention it to him. After another quarter hour, she and Ambrose took their leave.

They returned to Beckwith where Ambrose helped her dismount. His touch was gentle, but brief. She could only wonder what he felt, but every time she was near him, she recalled that first afternoon here in his chamber or that day in the stables at Benfield or that episode in the closet at Lady Anstruther’s ball and she became aroused. She wanted him, but as her days here were dwindling, she began to accept she’d never have him.

She was also loath to leave the Roseland Peninsula. “Beckwith is beautiful. I’ve enjoyed being here. Indeed, I’m not looking forward to leaving.” In just four days. Her insides clenched, but she strove to focus on this moment instead of her murky future—though it was becoming less murky by the moment.

“I’m glad you like it.”

They led their horses into the stable. Welch met them and took Matilda. Ambrose always cared for Orpheus now. Typically, Philippa would go to the house at this point and prepare for dinner. However, her conversation with Mrs. Lerner hovered in her mind.

She accompanied Ambrose to the tack area. “Mrs. Lerner says everyone is quite pleased to have you back. Indeed, they’re hoping you stay. Will you? Once the prizefight is over?”

He removed Orpheus’s bridle. “For a while. There are projects that require my attention.”

“Such as helping Mr. Lerner repair his shearing shed?”

He nodded without pausing in his task. She ought to go, but she wanted him to know what Mrs. Lerner had said. Maybe it would help him. “She indicated you seemed to have overcome the tragedy that befell you and your brother.”

Now he reacted. His brows dipped over his eyes, and his expression darkened. “I’m still here, the tragedy was all Nigel’s.”

A predictable response. She doubted he would ever relinquish any of that burden. “She told me what a good job you’ve done with Beckwith, how glad everyone is to have you back.”

He unstrapped Orpheus’s saddle, but said nothing.

Philippa waited another moment, but it became clear this was to be a one-sided conversation. “Ambrose, if you ever want to talk about—”

“I don’t.”

“It might help. You have all of this self-loathing, and really no one else blames—”

He looked at her sharply. “Have you been gathering information?”

Oh dear, she’d overstepped. “I’ve only listened to what people offered to tell me.”

His eyes narrowed. “What people?”

Beneath the weight of his stare, she panicked. She’d no wish to get Mrs. Oldham in any trouble, nor did she particularly want to tell him she’d befriended his former lover. She could scarcely believe she’d done that herself. “No one in particular.”

“Tell me who’s been talking to you.”

She brushed suddenly damp palms against her skirt. “Does it really matter when you won’t talk to me? Everyone cares about you, Ambrose. They aren’t telling tales behind your back, they’re trying to explain a terrible situation. People have forgiven you, or don’t you realize that?”

He glared at her. “You shouldn’t be talking about it to anyone.”

She refused to back down. Her time was running out. She had very few chances left to reach him. “You should be talking about it to me. I could help you find forgiveness. You and Nigel were in an awful situation, set up as you were to rival each other.”

His lip curled. “Is that what you think? We weren’t rivals.” His eyes glittered dangerously. “I was his better. In every way. People shouldn’t be wasting their forgiveness on me and neither should you.”

His resolve to despise himself was beyond maddening! “Don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t do. You didn’t mean for Nigel to die. Though I still don’t know precisely what happened—”

“And don’t ask me to tell you.” He returned his attention to Orpheus. “Don’t expect me for dinner.”

She watched him another moment, but knew further conversation was pointless. She turned, her shoulders drooping. She was no closer to getting him to lower his guard than when she’d arrived. She’d been so sure the last few days had brought them closer, but he seemed as distant as ever.

It seemed he wouldn’t ever forgive himself. Nor would he trust her with his pain. And she was damned sure he wasn’t going to fall in love with her.

Later that night, Ambrose stepped out of his tepid bath. He was such a selfish ass. Philippa had been patient. She’d been kind. She’d been understanding. And he’d thrown her concern back in her face because he was too afraid to tell her what a beast he really was. If he talked to her about the past, if he revealed all that he’d done, she’d leave him. He didn’t want her to leave him.

He owed her an apology.

He dried himself and donned a robe. Then he left his bedchamber and went into the sitting room. The door to Philippa’s chamber was closed. He hesitated. He could apologize to her in the morning.

But his feet carried him to her door. He knocked softly.

“Enter,” came her response.

His hand hovered above the latch. Then the door opened. She stood just over the threshold. In a silken wrapper over a night rail.

He swallowed in search of moisture for his suddenly parched mouth. “I, ah, I came to apologize.” he croaked.

“Oh, thank you.” She smiled softly. “Come in.”

Yes, she was a siren because his mind screamed for him to run, but his feet stepped over the threshold, and he closed the door behind him.

She gave him a hooded, sultry look. “Actually, your arrival is rather fortuitous. I have a problem, and perhaps you can help.”

He eyed her warily, every part of him—save one that was currently tenting his robe—screamed no. “Perhaps.” That one part was apparently louder than the rest.

She retreated further into her chamber. A low fire burned in the grate, casting her in warmth and shadow.

She turned toward him. “Your face looks better. I heard you lost that fight.”

Ambrose briefly considered sacking Oldham. Neither Ackley nor Ned possessed the nerve to share that information. “I did. Does that surprise you?”

“I’m certain it surprised you.” How had she come to know him so well when he’d done everything to keep her at bay? She fidgeted with the tie of her wrap. “About my problem…”

He lingered near the door, afraid to move too close to her, as faintly clothed as they were and as furious as his cock was pulsing. “What do you need?”
And why couldn’t you have asked a bloody servant
?

Her pink tongue darted over her lower lip. Ambrose sagged back against the door frame.

Delicately, she cleared her throat. “The other day in your room, you seemed close to…something. Goodness, this is embarrassing.” She looked toward the fireplace, her cheeks flushing deep pink. “I’ve tried to do that for myself, but I can’t seem to do it right.” She managed to bring her gaze back to his. “Would you help me?”

Bloody hell
. Was she asking him to help her pleasure herself? He could barely keep his hands from her now, but under the full weight of her feminine wiles he would very well be lost. He swallowed, with effort.

Her eyes glowed like amber in the firelight. “I know you’d prefer I leave you alone, but since we’ve done those other things, I was hoping you wouldn’t mind telling me how to do it.”

“Um, what have you tried?” His blood pounded in his temple, his ears, his cock.

“I touch myself.” She placed a hand on her thigh where the edges of her dressing gown met. “And it feels…nice, but when you touch my breasts, when you…put your mouth on them, it feels different. Better.” Her eyes were glassy, her breathing grew shorter. “Should I touch myself there?” She raised her hand to her breast, her fingers pressing against the top of her dressing gown and sliding between the fabric.

Her nipple hardened and his body came away from the doorframe like fire to oxygen. “Ah, you could. Maybe just cup the underside.” She followed his direction.
What was he doing
? “And now touch the nipple.” He gritted his teeth as her fingertips closed around the point.

She squeezed lightly and gasped. “It’s so strange because I felt that down there. Between my thighs.”

The same place he felt it, and he wasn’t even touching her or himself. His prick threatened to burn through his robe.

“But when I touch myself there,” her gaze flicked downward, “I can’t seem to find the right place.”

Oh, hell, he would surely regret this tomorrow, but she’d asked him for very little and offered so much. He couldn’t say no.

“Lie on the bed.”

She did as he commanded. She was the most provocative sight he’d ever beheld, cupping her breast while her dressing gown fell open to reveal a night rail that should’ve reached her knees, but was bunched up nearly to her sex.

He sat on the edge of the bed and untied the sash of her dressing gown. The contours of her body were quite deliciously visible beneath the gauze of her night rail. The firelight spread over her curves, highlighting the peaks and cloaking the valleys in mysterious, enticing shadow.

He took her free hand and guided it up under her night rail. The fabric rose, exposing her to his gaze. He looked up at her face. She watched him intently, her cheeks still flushed, but whether from embarrassment or desire, he couldn’t know.

He guided her fingers to her clitoris and applied pressure. “Have you tried pressing here?”

She bucked up into his hand. A shudder wracked his body. “Yes, but it’s not enough.”

“Try this.” He rotated their fingers over her flesh, manipulating her.

She ground up against him. “Oh, yes.”

He took her hand from her breast and slid it beneath her night rail. “Squeeze your nipple again.”

She pulled the flesh and cast her head back against the pillow. This was dangerously close to breaking his vow. He drew in a breath and tried to think of Nigel, of anything that would dampen his lust. But there was no room in his mind for anything or anyone but Philippa.

He continued stroking her, showing her a variation of movements and pressures. All the while, she surged against him, her hips seeking some sort of rhythm. He began to understand what she was missing. What
he
was missing.

“Have you moved lower?” He took her fingers and set them against her opening. Her flesh was alluringly damp. “Have you gone inside?”

She shook her head against the pillows.

Blood of Christ
. His hand stilled. He shouldn’t do this.
Why not
? He wasn’t pleasuring himself, he was pleasuring her. Surely that wouldn’t break his vow or his honor? A pathetic argument, but convincing nonetheless.

“Like this.” Slowly, he pressed his middle finger into her flesh. She was tight and hot. Her hips fell back against the bed and her thighs closed around his hand. “Open, sweetheart.” He coaxed her with his fingers, moving back up to her clitoris and stoking her desire—and his—anew.

She parted her thighs slightly, but he could feel her tension. She’d stopped caressing her breast.
No, don’t stop
. Yes, he wanted to give this to her. So desperately.

He pushed her night rail up her abdomen, exposing the dip of her belly. He swallowed then moved the fabric higher. “Take it off,” he rasped.

She opened her eyes and stared at him a moment before complying. Then the night rail went over her head and was thrust to the side.

God, she was exquisite. The firelight illuminated every graceful slope, every provocative hollow, the pale luster of her flesh, the rosy peaks of her breasts. He inhaled deeply, savoring not just her familiar honey lilac scent, but the new and delicious musk of her desire.

Committed at least to helping her, he bent his head to her breast and blew across the tip. The nipple puckered and she sucked in air. He kissed her there, softly at first, then using his tongue to draw circles.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, and she pulled him against her. It was the end of his restraint.

He opened his mouth on her and drew her nipple against his tongue. He sucked and licked then cupped the soft flesh underneath. She tasted so good. Like sunshine on the brightest summer day. Like the sweet, salty breeze coming in from the ocean. Like home.

Gently, he began to move his fingers over her again, small circular motions meant to establish a rhythm she could latch onto. He applied a bit more pressure and widened his caress, going lower to stroke just the edges of her opening. His cock throbbed, but he wouldn’t lose control. He would give her what she wanted.

Gradually, her hips fell open, exposing her to his fingers. Pressing his thumb against her clitoris, he slowly moved his middle finger along the length of her opening. She tightened up again and so he drew on her nipple. Moisture wetted his finger. “Yes, that’s it,” he murmured.

He slid his finger inside. Just a brief invasion. But she gasped and dug her fingers harder into his scalp.

She moaned. “More.”

He climbed onto the bed and lay beside her. Inhaling deeply, he sought the strength to keep himself from covering her. After a moment, he allowed himself to stroke his finger into her again, more fully this time. He kept his thumb on her, moving over her, instilling that vital rhythm. Then he matched it with his finger, moving in and out of her with slow precision. Her hips rose to meet him again and again.