To Seduce a Scoundrel (38 page)

He pulled himself astride Orpheus and rode down to Portscatho and then back along the beach toward Beckwith. He still couldn’t ride through Gerrans, not past the churchyard where Nigel was buried.

By the time he rode into the stable yard, he was desperate with longing. His brain screamed for him to stop and think, but the protestations grew weaker and weaker. Welch met him, and Ambrose tossed the reins in his direction. Wordlessly, Ambrose turned and strode to the house, his gait eating up the path.

He had to see Philippa, needed to hold her before she left him forever. He moved into the drawing room and took the stairs two at a time. Onward to the door to her chamber, where, with a shaking hand, he rapped three times.

The door opened to reveal her maid who bobbed a curtsey. “Your lordship.”

Philippa emerged from the doorway to her dressing chamber garbed in nothing but a chemise. Her hair was loose, gently waving about her shoulders and grazing the tops of her breasts. He’d never seen her with all of her hair down.

He couldn’t take his hungry gaze from her but spoke at the maid, “Leave us.”

Philippa nodded at the girl, who skirted Ambrose and left the bedchamber.

Ambrose went to stand before Philippa. His ragged breathing filled his ears; his furious heartbeat clogged his throat. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, luminous, trusting.

Salvation was right here. He had only to touch her. To accept what she offered—trust, solace, love. The argument in his head died away, leaving him open and vulnerable.

He shoved his hands into her hair and cupped her head. She was soft and warm and smelled like just-bloomed lilac drenched in honey, as if she’d bathed that afternoon.

He dragged his thumb along her cheek and settled it against her lower lip. Her tongue darted out and licked the pad and he was lost. He held her head captive while he slanted his mouth across hers. She was ready. Hot, wet, eager. Her arms snaked around his back and held him close.

The knowledge that he was about to break his long-held vow made him quake, both with fear and with wanting her so badly. How would he even perform? It had been so long.

No, he didn’t want to think right now. Only to feel. To luxuriate in this woman who’d given herself so completely to him. This woman he was completely unworthy of, but whom he so desperately wanted to deserve.

She licked at his mouth, inviting him to devour her. Her fingers dug into his back, a reflection of his own need. He picked her up as effortlessly as he’d done at the beach and took her to the bed.

He tempered his lust, setting her gently onto the coverlet. Waning sunlight streamed through the windows, setting her skin afire with gold. “You’re exquisite,” he breathed, unable to find the volume to speak aloud amidst his overwhelming humility.

She reached up for him, and he was impatient to be next to her. He quickly removed his coat, waistcoat, boots, and stockings. She sat up and pulled at the ends of his cravat. The silk whispered against his neck as she tugged it free and cast it aside. He swept his shirt over his head in one fluid movement.

When his gaze found hers once more, he stilled. Her eyes were wide, focused on his bare chest. No, on his shoulder. His scar. Would she ask him about it again? He didn’t want to spoil this, was afraid of the intrusion of anything but what they could give each other right here, right now.

She kneeled before him on the edge of the bed. With halting fingers, she touched the five-year-old blemish. Gently, she traced the circle where Nigel’s bullet had pierced him.

Ambrose reveled in her nurturing silence. He’d never imagined he could one day associate that wound with anything good. But her touch and her care were absolution for his sins. Succor, joy, contentment seemed not only possible, but within his grasp.

Because of her.

That she said nothing about the scar, asked nothing when he owed her so much, humbled him even more. He pressed his lips to her forehead. Her breath sighed against his collarbone, warm and soft. Comforting.

She drew her chemise up over her head. With her arms raised, her breasts rose high, tempting him with their tight pink buds. Without pretense, he drew a nipple into his mouth. She gasped and lowered her arms to his shoulders, her chemise rippling against his back as it fell from her grasp.

He cupped her breasts, holding her to his mouth. Her hands clasped his head as he suckled her. She was a feast, and he was starving. He licked at her and grazed his teeth along her nipple, then moved to the other, repeating his erotic ministrations.

Her hands were suddenly at the waistband of his breeches. Already wildly aroused, his cock strained against his drawers. She fumbled with the buttons and he impatiently took over, making quick work of shedding both his breeches and his undergarments.

He guided her back against the mattress, or did she pull him? It seemed a mutual action, taking each other where they needed to be.

He lay against her side and drew his finger along her lips, across her jawline, down her neck. He traced the elegant slope of her collarbone and pressed a kiss to the hollow of her throat where her heart beat strong and fast.

He dragged his fingers down to her breasts, not touching the sensitive peaks, but sweeping around the curves and valleys. Slowly, intently, he circled one breast, teasing her flesh. She arched up, begging him wordlessly to give her more. He closed his fingers over the nipple and lightly tugged. She gasped and her hips came off the bed, signaling how deep her arousal had reached.

Reluctantly but purposefully he left her breast and trailed his fingers down her belly to the indentation of her navel. She sucked in her breath. He recalled the night they’d met when she’d said she was ticklish. Most definitely.

He slid lower, skipping the bounty between her thighs—for now. He glided his palm over her hip. She was supple and smooth and powerful, the muscles of her legs defined and athletic.

Her body told him so many things. How she lived, what she wanted, how he could pleasure her. And that was paramount to him. Not his own satisfaction—which after denying himself so long would be easy enough—but hers. She was a gift he would not take lightly.

He explored the arc of her thigh, the pocket behind her knee, where he knew she was also ticklish, the sleek curve of her calf. Intermittently she made soft, whispery noises when he grazed a sensitive spot.

Time to map that most intimate part of her, the part he longed to touch and taste. He brought his hand up between her thighs. Her initial reaction was to clamp them shut, but she quickly relaxed her muscles and even widened her legs. So responsive.

Dark curls cloaked her sex. With a light touch, he delved through them and found the pink folds, damp and warm with her arousal. “Beautiful,” he breathed.

He stroked along her cleft, gathering moisture. Her thighs widened further, inviting him, enchanting him. God, she was so wet already. He needn’t do what he was about to, but he couldn’t help himself. Her sweet musk and soft flesh were more than he could stand.

He leaned down and kissed the skin above her curls. She inhaled sharply, and her buttocks came off the bed. The movement drew his fingertip inside eliciting a soft moan from her lips. He slid further in, and she thrust her hips.

Quickly, he resettled himself between her legs and pressed his mouth to her clitoris. “
Ambrose
. What on earth are you doing?”

Of course she would ask him.

He smiled against her flesh. “Pleasuring you.”

“Oh.”

He licked her as he worked his finger inside and pumped once. Twice. “Is this all right?”

She threaded her fingers in his hair. “God, yes.”

“Good.”

He showed no mercy then. He pushed her thighs open further, exposing her innermost flesh to his greedy gaze. Pink and wet. Delicious. He kissed her fully, his tongue delving deep into her passage.

She bucked up, crying out as he made love to her with his mouth. Her muscles contracted around him, her thighs tensed as her hips thrust. She’d paid attention when he’d instructed her about rhythm, but her movements were jerky, uncontrolled. He returned his finger to her channel and gave her the rhythm, evening out her thrusts and driving her steadily toward the pinnacle she sought.

He put his thumb on her clitoris and splayed his hand over the top of her sex. He pressed against her as he feasted. Her fingers gripped the back of his head. Her muscles clenched and she shuddered. Once. Twice. A third time. He thrust his tongue into her and devoured her, his own cock in danger of spilling its seed.

A small but insistent voice said,
you can stop now
.

No, he couldn’t.

Yes, you can. You haven’t yet broken your vow
.

He sat back as her orgasm faded. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted to allow ragged breaths to escape.

Leave now and you’ll have nothing to regret
.

Her eyes flew open. The wonder in her gaze instantly turned to apprehension. She sat up and clutched his hand. “Don’t you dare leave me.”

Chapter Twenty-three

SHE’D seen that look before. That fear and revulsion—not for her, but for himself. She wouldn’t let it take him, not this time. She tugged his hand, trying to pull him down onto the bed with her.

His face shuttered, his eyes dulled, he resisted her touch. “I ought to go.”

“No, you ought not. It would be highly ungentlemanly to leave a lady in this situation.”

His gaze regained focus and settled on her. “My vow is important.”

She scrambled up onto her knees and took his other hand, holding him tight in her grasp. “I can see that, and I don’t mean to dishonor it. But tell me, why is it important?”

His eyes narrowed, and his voice was dangerously soft. “You know what happened. I seduced my brother’s fiancée.”

“And that was horrible, but it’s also in the past.”

Roughly, he pulled his hands from hers. “He died, Philippa! He found me with her, shot me in the shoulder, which is less than I deserved, and then rode off on Orpheus. Which he would’ve survived if I hadn’t chased him down and caused him to fall.” The anguish lined in his face, the ragged desperation punctuating each word twisted her heart.

She found his hands again and stroked her thumbs over their backs, willing peace, understanding, forgiveness into his tortured soul. “It was an accident. A terrible, tragic accident. If you were meant to die too, you would have.”

His eyes widened, giving him the appearance of a boy facing his fear. “But look what I did to you. No good can come from me.”

She laughed softly, for his logic was quite flawed. She cupped his jaw line. “Plenty of good comes from you. You saved me, Ambrose—not from a ruined reputation and not from danger. You saved me from the cold life my parents orchestrated.” After tonight she could never marry Sir Mortimer. She’d choose an isolated cottage filled with the ghostly memories of her love for Ambrose before she’d wed another man. Which seemed likely because though he might give her his body, he’d never promised his heart or his soul. She wanted, no, she
needed
both.

Cautiously, she lay back, offering her body, her comfort, her love. “Show me what else is good.”

He visibly swallowed, his gaze moving over her like a gentle caress. She waited, breathless, for his decision.

He leaned down and kissed her mouth. A painstaking brush of his lips over hers. Delicate, sweet. She relaxed and brought her hands up to his shoulders, thrilled by his courage.

His mouth opened over hers. He slid his tongue into her as he settled his body over hers. She kissed him back, slanting her mouth, meeting him, wanting him.

The connection of his bare chest against her breasts made her gasp into their kiss. To have him against her—skin to skin—was everything she’d craved. Nothing between them save heat and desire. He pressed his hips down, grinding his hard length deliciously against her.

She opened her thighs, ready to finally make him hers. His sex nestled hers, and though she’d just found her orgasm moments ago, she was more than ready again. Achingly so.

His fingers found her most sensitive spot and worked the flesh a moment. She clutched at his waist, trying to pull him harder against her. His fingers delved lower, and he positioned his shaft at her opening.

“Sweetheart, I do believe this is going to hurt a bit.”

He pushed inside, opening her farther than she’d ever stretched. He slid in slowly, his thumb massaging her clitoris. She rotated her hips needfully and clasped his hips, seeking that all-important rhythm that would lead them to ecstasy.

He was going too slow. This didn’t hurt in the slightest. She tightened her grip on his hips and pulled him down as she pushed up. “Oh!” Pain burned as her muscles stretched in a way they’d never done before, and she dug her fingers into his buttocks.

“Shhh,” he murmured, taking his hand from between them and smoothing her hair back from her face. He looked into her eyes as he rotated his hips the barest amount. He didn’t move, just kept himself still, filling her, allowing her to accommodate him. He was so beautiful to her, his eyes dark and seductive in the sunset, his skin glistening with damp.