To Seduce a Scoundrel (8 page)

“Your days are numbered, Jagger. You can’t threaten a gentlewoman and not expect repercussions.”

Jagger smiled his infuriatingly smug smile, but his eyes were pure malice. “There will be no repercussions for me. But the damage to her will be incontrovertible. Her reputation rides on
you
. Fighting
for me
.”

“God damn it, just bring me the woman!” Ambrose thundered, his tolerance past its limit.

Jagger chuckled. “Impatient bastard, aren’t you? I would be too if I had her at my fingertips. And what a cheeky fellow you are—shagging a respectable girl right under the
ton
’s noses. But then that’s what you do, isn’t it?”

Ambrose leapt across the table and slammed into him. They hit the gilt chair, knocking it backward. The top just cleared the wall, but he and Jagger went crashing into the paneling. Before he could land a punch, Ambrose was viciously pulled away. A fist drove into his lower back and he grunted in pain.

“Stop,” Jagger gathered his balance. “Don’t hurt my new prizefighter. I see I salted a wound, Sevrin. I’d no idea you were a man of such strong emotions.”

He hadn’t been in a long time. Though Jagger’s account of Ambrose’s history was true, it wasn’t the entire truth. Regardless, he was as surprised by his reaction as Jagger had been. Apparently there was at least a scrap of honor buried somewhere inside him. There had to be, or he never would’ve helped Philippa tonight.

Jagger brushed off his clothing. “Take him upstairs to get the woman and then put them in a hack to Upper Grosvenor Street.”

The men holding Ambrose pulled him toward the stairs. He wrenched his arms free as they passed the bastard who’d attacked Philippa in the alley. He gave Ambrose a sharp, sinister stare. “Keep hold of yer girl. Never know when something bad might happen.”

Ambrose lunged toward him, but the other men grabbed him and pushed him toward the stairs. One led the way while the other kept shoving him in the back as they climbed the creaking stairs. The smell of rotting wood and cloying dust accompanied them. On the third landing, he was led to a door at the end of a short corridor.

The first man threw the bolt and opened the door. The room was pitch black save weak light filtering in through the closed shutter over the single window. Ambrose strained to see, but couldn’t make out a figure in the small chamber.

He pushed past the criminal into the room. “Philippa?” He couldn’t keep the concern from his tone. Didn’t even try.

“Sevrin?” She stepped from behind the door and he heard something clatter to the floor.

Ambrose slammed the door in the faces of the criminals and then gathered Philippa in his arms. “Are you all right?” He pressed his lips to her temple, unable to stop himself. Somehow they’d gone from complete strangers to something else in the span of a few hours.

Her arms came up around his neck and she pressed into him as if she meant to join her body with his. Need and want speared through him. He clasped the sides of her head and kissed her.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss, but a savage claiming borne of fear and danger and soul-shattering relief at finding her whole. His lips slanted over hers and demanded entrance into her mouth. She opened for him and he devoured her. She tasted of desire and courage. He licked and ate at her mouth as if he’d die without possessing her in this moment.

That she kissed him back with open-mouthed hunger should have shocked him, but he reveled in her response. She clutched at his neck, her fingers twining into the hair at his nape. Her tongue met his with probing, delicious strokes. Her lips moved with increasing urgency. Her body cleaved to his perfectly. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her breasts against him until his body was shamelessly aflame with lust.

“Ye want us to leave ye alone?” came a voice from outside.

Ambrose slowed the kiss with great reluctance then ended it with a soft brush of his lips against hers. He knew he had to let her go, but couldn’t. Not yet.

He rested his forehead against hers as they breathed into each other. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Are you sure you’re all right? I’ll kill them all if they’ve hurt you.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide in the dim light. She looked a bit dazed, and he hoped it was from the kiss and not anything else. “I’m fine.” She shuddered, but it was much different from the spasms she’d suffered in the hack earlier. Her body thrummed with energy, and it was all Ambrose could do not to prolong their embrace. “I’m just glad it was you, though I was prepared to defend myself.” She glanced at the floor where a piece of wood lay.

He followed her gaze. “What’s that?”

“Part of a slat from the bed in the corner. The furniture’s in horrible condition, but it provides a ready weapon.”

He laughed, as much to release everything pent up inside him as to see her smile in return. And she didn’t disappoint him. “You’re the bravest girl I know. No other woman could’ve endured tonight.”

“Is it over then?” The hope in her voice drove him to squeeze her tightly against him.

“Yes, we’re going to Herrick House now.”

“What did he want from you?”

“I’m to help him find a prizefighter.” He wouldn’t tell her about the threat to her reputation. There was no need for her to worry over something that would never come to pass. He wouldn’t allow it.

She blinked at him, her ale-colored eyes wide. “That’s it?”

He pulled her against his chest to avoid looking in her eyes. “Yes.”

“And you can do that?” At his nod, she clutched at his shirtfront and rested her cheek against his pounding heart. “Thank you.”

A quarter hour later they were ensconced in the hack that had brought them and were traveling back the way they’d come.

“What time do you think it is?” she asked.

They sat together on the forward-facing seat. She leaned against him, and he curled his arm around her shoulders.

“I’m not sure, but morning can’t be too far off. Will your mother be home already?”

“I don’t know. Last night—rather, this morning, no I suppose that was
yesterday
morning now—she didn’t return until after I’d risen.”

“I imagine the servants will inform her of your late arrival. I’m sorry this will cause you trouble.”

“It won’t.” She yawned behind her hand. “The night footman is half-blind and typically too sleep-addled to remember what time I came in, and my maid will say whatever I tell her to.”

“Convenient.”

“Very. Though I’d trade the convenience if it meant my mother would cease her scandalous behavior.” They lapsed into silence for a few minutes. The wheels of the hack rattled over the cobblestone streets; street lanterns glowed at intervals. She yawned again. “You never answered me about why you let others think the worst of you.”

Her head rested against his chest and he gave into the urge to stroke her hair, which had all but come out of its elaborate style. “Because everything they think is true.”

“I don’t believe it. Especially the part about you liking men.”

“God, no. At least that isn’t true.”

She gave a single, lethargic nod. “Everything you did tonight was heroic.”

He couldn’t allow her to credit him. They couldn’t be friends. They couldn’t be anything. He stopped stroking her hair and ought to have set her against the squab, but couldn’t bring himself to dislodge her—an utterly unheroic gesture. “Philippa, I’m not some knight meant to rescue you. I’ve done many things that are far beyond the pale.”

She lifted her head and looked up at him. “Such as ruin a girl and not marry her.”

“Yes.” And so much worse.

She laid her head back down and snuggled against him. “Next time I see you, you can tell me what really happened because I don’t believe the story is that simple.”

He was unnerved at both her faith in him and her ability to vault the carefully constructed wall around his past. He ought to say there wouldn’t be a next time, that when he saw her again, he would turn and walk away as if he didn’t know the luscious feel of her body, or the heartwarming sound of her laugh, or the delectable taste of her mouth. Instead, he listened to the deepening sound of her breathing and caressed the gentle rise of her shoulder.

All the anger he’d felt, all the self-loathing drifted away. His body relaxed in time with hers, and he surrendered to the comfort of just being next to her. He would cherish this moment of absolute peace, knowing it was the only one he might ever have.

Chapter Five

THE following day, Philippa nervously paced her mother’s sitting room. She’d tried to complete her morning’s correspondence, but penning letters to her married friends couldn’t hold her attention. Letters to her aunts and cousins even less so. She was far too consumed with her mother’s outrageous behavior. Leaving Lady Kilmartin’s with Booth-Barrows. Going to Lockwood House. Engaging in some sort of illicit activity with Booth-Barrows and
two other people
.

She shuddered to think of the scandal if anyone discovered her mother’s perversion. Her pace quickened along with her pulse.

Mother wouldn’t appreciate Philippa taking up residence in her personal chambers. However, Philippa was determined to see her as soon as possible.
Assuming she came home
.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly, announcing the time to be nearly half past noon. Noon! Mother had never stayed out so long.

Philippa wished the window overlooked the street instead of the rear garden. She supposed she could go down and wait on the doorstep.

Was that the faint sound of a coach? She stilled and listened intently for the sound of the front door opening. There it was.
At last
. She perched on the edge of the burgundy damask settee and composed herself, mentally rehearsing what she meant to say.

A moment later the door opened, but it was her mother’s maid, Ellis. She inclined her head. “My lady.” Her soft, crinkly face—Ellis was well past middle age—was pinched, showing a bit of displeasure.

Philippa doubted Ellis’s expression was due to her presence in Mother’s sitting room. Rather, the maid was disturbed by Mother’s staying out all night. Ellis was nothing if not staid and proper. “Good afternoon, Ellis. I need to speak with my mother privately.”

“Certainly. I’ll just wait in her dressing chamber.”

Philippa nodded. The maid disappeared into her mother’s bedchamber and presumably the dressing room beyond. A few minutes later, the door opened again. Philippa’s heart rate increased.

Her mother closed the door and turned. Her face was lined, exhausted, but a smile lifted the edges of her mouth. She stopped short upon seeing Philippa, and the smile faded.

“Mother, I need to speak with you.”

“It will have to wait, I’m afraid. I’m simply dead on my feet.”

“It can’t wait.” Philippa refused to be pushed aside until a more convenient hour. She pressed her damp palms against her lap. “Mother, you can’t continue to behave like this.”

Rather than react to what Philippa had said, her mother had the audacity to stifle a yawn. Perhaps that
was
her reaction. “Like what? Really, I must insist we discuss this later.”

“No, we’ll discuss it now.”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed and her mouth drew tightly into an expression of disapproval. Her tone dripped ice. “I do not appreciate your disrespect.”

Philippa stood, her legs quivering in anger. “
My
disrespect? I’m not the one cavorting about Town with a man who isn’t my husband!”
Not to mention attending orgies
, but she couldn’t bring herself to verbalize that.

Her mother stepped toward her bedchamber, giving no indication she registered—or cared—about Philippa’s outrage. “Your insinuations are insulting. I’m a grown woman. If I choose to stay out all night with my friends, it’s none of your affair.”

Philippa shouldn’t have been surprised by her mother’s indifference. She’d long ignored any concerns her daughter might’ve had. Her primary goal had been to see Philippa married, and the longer Philippa took to find a husband, the less interested Mother became.

Weary of her mother’s selfishness, Philippa blurted, “I followed you to Lockwood House.” Immediately, she wished she could draw the words back into her mouth.

Her mother’s gasp filled the chamber. She turned abruptly. “Never say you were there.”

No point in refuting it now. She forced her quaking frame to still. “I was.”

Mother stepped toward her, the exhaustion stripped from her features. “Why would—”

Philippa notched her chin up. “I’m afraid I deluded myself into thinking I could talk you into coming home with me and honoring your marriage to Father. Only think, if I’m aware of your activities, who else is?”

Mother’s lips disappeared into a tight line. “I don’t love your father, and he doesn’t love me. He doesn’t care what I do.”

While her parents’ marriage had never been one of passion or love, hearing Mother plainly say so made Philippa’s heart ache. She’d spent years—a lifetime—convincing herself that behind closed doors her parents shared some sort of
feeling
for one another. What a fool she’d been. Even now, she searched her memories for happy times, love-filled moments, care and consideration, but there was nothing. Just a cold void where a family ought to have been.