To Seduce a Scoundrel (41 page)

Her hands came up and clutched the coverlet on either side of her head. He stroked in and out, giving her what she craved. What he craved. Her hips came back off the bed, meeting his thrusts. He considered taking her this way, but he wanted to see her face when she came.

He flipped her over. She instantly pulled on his shoulders and arched up to kiss him, her mouth hot and open, her tongue demanding entry.

She parted her thighs and he buried himself between them. There was no need to position himself, no need to guide his way in. Her hands moved down his sides and clasped his buttocks, pulling him into her. But he needed no direction. He speared himself inside of her with one long, bold stroke.

She fell back on the bed and brought her legs up until her heels dug into the backs of his thighs. God, she was so tight, so hot, so unbearably divine.

She met his thrusts with eager jerks. Her hands and feet dug against him, urging him deeper and faster.

Her breaths grew short, frenzied. Soft moans and gasps escaped her mouth. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted in ecstasy. “Yes,” she cried. “Yes, Ambrose.”

And then her muscles squeezed viciously around him as her orgasm swept her away. Her cries grew frantic, incoherent. He squeezed his eyes shut at his impending release. His balls drew up and his cock surged. He meant to withdraw, but her heels were still pressed tight against his thighs and her hands dug into his buttocks. He couldn’t move except to drive deeper and spill himself inside of her.

With a loud cry, he pitched forward, catching his weight before he settled against her, their hearts beating against one another.

Chapter Twenty-five

PHILIPPA rose as dawn broke through the narrow gap between the window curtains. Ambrose slept behind her, his arm thrown over her hip. She closed her eyes for one more minute of comfort in his embrace.

Lying with him again changed nothing. He hadn’t promised her anything, nor had she asked. He wasn’t ready to move forward—with her—and she had to. Alone.

If he had a change of heart he could always come after her. But she doubted he would.

She scooted away from him and left the bed. Chilled without his body to warm her, she quietly found her clothing and dressed, save the laces at the back of her gown. She plucked up her slippers and cast one final look at Ambrose. Love welled in her heart and threatened to spill from her eyes, but she turned and left. She would not be ruled by regret. She’d seen firsthand how remorse had ruined him, and she refused to let it ruin her.

In the corridor, she paused, unsure where to go. She’d left her footmen and Feeney with her coach when she and Mrs. Oldham had gone to the fight. Ambrose had asked the Oldhams to procure another room, and presumably that was where she’d find Feeney. She made her way down the main staircase into the inn’s common room. A footman greeted her at the bottom.

She tried to ignore her embarrassment given her not-quite-dressed-state, not to mention the condition of her hair, but her face grew hot anyway. “Excuse me,” she said then had to clear her sleep-jagged throat. “Could you please direct me to my chamber? I’m Lady Philippa.”

“Of course.” He led her back up the stairs and then in the opposite direction from Ambrose’s room. He paused and inclined his head toward the third door.

“Thank you,” Philippa said. “Do you know where my footmen are staying? I should like to have my coach ready as soon as possible.”

“I’ll see to it, my lady.” He bowed and departed.

Philippa knocked softly on the door and was quickly answered by Feeney who looked more than a bit relieved to see her mistress.

Less than a half hour later, Philippa and Feeney stepped outside the front of the inn. Philippa was still occupied with tying her bonnet as she made her way to the Herrick coach.

She put her foot on the first step and sniffed. What was that smell? Above the general scent of waste associated with a town the size of Truro was the unmistakable stench of unwashed male. She turned her head toward the footman holding the door and froze as cold fear drenched her body.

Swan, his familiar rotted-tooth grin splitting his round face, winked at her. As before, he was garbed in stolen livery, except this time it was Herrick’s. “’Morning, my lady. Seems we’re to have our tête-à-tête after all.”

Feeney opened her mouth, but her scream never came. The other “footman”, who was really Jagger’s second employee, had come down from the box and had slapped his filthy hand over the lower half of Feeney’s face.

Feeney dropped to the ground in a dead faint.

Philippa lurched toward her, but Swan grabbed her elbow in a vice-like grip. He gestured at Feeney’s crumpled form. “Tie ‘er up and stow her with the other blokes.”

Philippa’s footmen?

The other criminal picked Feeney up, tossed her over his shoulder, and swaggered away with her down the street.

Hope for not only her safety, but for that of her retainers, surged inside of Philippa as the Red Lion footman came from the inn and stopped short. “Is everything all right, my lady?”

“No.” Philippa elbowed her would-be captor in the stomach. He grunted but retaliated by backhanding her. She took the blow across her face and fell against the side of the coach.

The Red Lion footman rushed forward and the unmistakable steel of a blade in Swan’s hand glittered in the morning sun. Swan lunged toward the footman’s stomach. The footman gasped and pitched forward.

Philippa shrieked. Swan was upon her in a trice, his hand grinding against her mouth. “None of that now!” He pulled a dirty length of cloth from his pocket and tied it around her face, gagging her. Then he spun her about and pulled her arms behind her back and tied them tightly together with a length of rope he’d grabbed from the floor of the coach. “Time for a ride.” Swan hefted her up the steps and tossed her inside the vehicle. The door slammed shut, shrouding her in darkness since the curtains on the windows were drawn.

A few moments later the coach moved forward, leaving the Red Lion—and her hope—behind.

Ambrose awoke to early morning light filtering into his room. Smiling languidly, he reached for Philippa, but his hand met an empty bed. He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He scanned the floor where her clothes had been and found that, too, empty. She must’ve gone to her own room.

He dragged himself from the bed and stretched, relishing the warm satisfaction thrumming through his body. He’d won the fight, and Philippa’s presence had made the victory that much sweeter. Suddenly, he was desperate to see her. He hated waking up without her at his side and resolved he’d never do it again. He dressed quickly and headed downstairs in search of someone who might tell him where she was.

He was in luck for the Oldhams were seated in the common room downstairs. Mrs. Oldham was sipping a cup of tea while Mr. Oldham was talking with the inn’s proprietor.

Ambrose made his way to the table, but by the time he’d arrived, the innkeeper had moved on. Mrs. Oldham acknowledged Ambrose’s presence with a scowl.

Ambrose sat. “Why are you looking at me like that? What have I done now?”

“She’s gone.”

Ambrose didn’t require clarification as to who “she” was. “Gone?”

Mrs. Oldham nodded. “Her coach, her servants. Just as she’d planned, I suppose. I thought… That is, I’d hoped after last night she’d be staying.” She glared at Ambrose, her scowl turning to thorough disdain.

He too had hoped Philippa would’ve stayed, but perhaps she preferred marriage to the other man. And who could fault her? He’d given her nothing. “She’s to be married.” God, saying those words turned him inside out.

Oldham slapped his palm on the table. “To someone else? She should be marrying you.”

“I’m sure this other man is preferable.” Ambrose’s spine threatened to curl in on itself.

Mrs. Oldham set her cup in her saucer and delivered Ambrose a frosty glare Saxton would’ve been proud of. “I doubt that. She loves you.”

He knew it was true. Why then had she left? Because he’d been a selfish ass. Again.

As if Mrs. Oldham could hear his thoughts, she leaned over the table, her eyes searching his face. “When are you going to stop this nonsense and let the past go? Nigel would never want this for you.”

Pain streaked through him, but—shockingly—not as keen as before. “Nigel’s not here to say.”

Oldham grunted. “And more’s the pity, but it was still likely he wouldn’t have been here in any case. The lad was on borrowed time.”

How he hated to hear that argument. As if Nigel were to blame for living beyond everyone’s expectations. “So everyone always said, yet there he was.”

“Only because he was driven to succeed,” Mrs. Oldham said. “Just like you.”

Ambrose stared at her.

“You think he wasn’t? He was always jealous of you. How couldn’t he be? And when he inherited, he finally had the chance to show everyone what he could do, but you were already so firmly entrenched in Beckwith’s operations, it was impossible for him to find a footing.” She laid her hand over the top of Ambrose’s. “And that’s not your fault. If you must blame someone, blame your father. He planted a rivalry that was bound to hurt someone.”

“I did more than ‘hurt’ Nigel.” He swallowed and finally gave voice to the fear that haunted him. “What if I wanted Nigel to die? So that I could inherit?”

Mrs. Oldham’s eyes clouded. She squeezed his hand tightly. “Oh, you dear boy. I would never believe that of you, and you mustn’t either. You made mistakes, but so did he. And so did that woman he brought home. It was a terrible mess, and the result was tragic.” She dashed her free hand over her eyes. “You can turn your back on all of us, on Nigel’s legacy—because whatever happened, you inherited from
him
—but do
not
turn your back on Lady Philippa. She loves you, and I daresay you’ll never find that again.”

Self-recrimination and doubt were so rooted in his soul, he couldn’t see past them. He felt small and sad, completely lost. “What if I hurt her? I don’t know if I’m capable of loving her in the way she deserves.” Mrs. Oldham had no idea what Philippa had endured watching her parents’ farce of a marriage.

Mrs. Oldham cocked her head to the side. “Do you love her?”

Was love that feeling of supreme satisfaction when he’d awakened this morning? That sorrow when he’d found her gone? The searing pain that sliced through him as he thought of her marrying someone else? “Yes.” It came out as a near-whisper. “Yes,” he said louder as certainty inflated his chest.

But what did that mean? Could he simply forget the things he’d done and move forward? He closed his eyes and pictured his brother’s face, which had become more difficult to summon in the years since his death. Instead, he recalled Nigel’s laugh, the way his brow furrowed as he worked on the estate ledgers and the haunting notes he’d created from his violin.

Ambrose smiled. For the first time, he thought of his brother and smiled. Nigel would’ve liked Philippa. He would’ve appreciated her humor and intelligence, her independence. Things Ambrose loved about her.

The idea of going back to the way things were before—living at the Black Horse in London, wandering at the edge of acceptability, belonging nowhere and to no one—filled him with a suffocating despair. God help him, he wanted so badly to deserve even a small part of her.

Was there a chance for him? Philippa had maintained for so long that he was a good person. Could there be a morsel of truth to that? Could he find whatever remained of his decency?

“What are ye going to do?” Oldham asked.

“The only thing I can.” He brought Mrs. Oldham’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss on her knuckles. “Thank you.”

Tears glistened in her eyes. “Go and find her.”

Unfortunately that directive proved far easier to utter than carry out. No one knew at what time she’d left or in which direction she’d departed. Ambrose supposed she’d gone east since her father’s house was in Somerset, but preferred to speak with the footman who’d been on duty to glean more information. Unfortunately that footman had strangely disappeared.

The innkeeper was furious, but the footman had been relatively new and, apparently, sometimes the new ones snuck away from their posts for a drink or two, or ten. The innkeeper sent men out in search of the lad, both at his home and at the local pubs.

Ambrose preferred action to inaction. Fortunately, he’d ridden Orpheus to Truro yesterday in advance of the coach in which Oldham and Ackley had traveled. He saddled his horse in the Red Lion’s stables and rode out into the Middle Row as a coach pulled to a stop in front of the Red Lion.

Ambrose didn’t move. He’d recognize the Herrick crest anywhere. It was the exact coach Philippa had been waiting in that night on the Haymarket.

A liveried footman opened the door and Philippa’s father stepped down. Ambrose frowned and he dismounted. He handed Orpheus’s reins to a footman belonging to the Red Lion.

“Herrick,” he called.

Philippa’s father turned, and his ridiculously bushy eyebrows gathered low over his eyes. He strode toward Ambrose, his fists clenched at his sides. “You. Where the bloody hell is my daughter?”