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Authors: Mia Marlowe

Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3) (19 page)

BOOK: Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3)
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He tugged up her chemise and found her sex. She was still wet from her dalliance with Griffin earlier. Still achingly sensitive. Her chest constricted as she remembered the way he’d given pleasure to her with such tenderness. Even though the room was dark, she squeezed her eyes shut.
It’s him. I’ll tell myself it’s him. And I’ll believe it till the morning light tells me different.
She’d conned so many people. How hard could it be to con herself? She tucked her soul away where nothing could touch it and ordered herself not to think.
She should concentrate on feeling. That was the only way to get through this.
There was plenty to feel. His mouth was at her breasts, tugging and suckling. Need roared inside her. Now would be the right time to tell Theodore that she loved him, that she’d be honored to be his wife, but she couldn’t form a coherent sentence. Only helpless gasps and little needy sounds escaped her throat.
Or maybe it was just that she didn’t want to taint the exquisite pleasure with a lie. She didn’t love Teddy. And she doubted she ever would. Not when a lump of caring for his brother was firmly lodged in her chest.
He moved so his hips were positioned between her legs. She felt him at the apex of her thighs, ready to rend her. She stiffened.
He left her breasts and kissed her mouth again, teasing her with his tongue. As he slipped it in between her lips, he entered her down lower as well. Slowly. Letting her expand to receive him.
The wonder of taking him in made her forget everything else.
Then he stopped suddenly.
She knew there was more of him and to her surprise, she ached to hold all of him inside her. Emma moved her hips, wordlessly asking him to enter.
He propped his upper body on his elbows and withdrew a bit.
She whimpered with need.
Then he thrust into her hard, all the way to his base. She gasped at the sudden rending. Her insides burned. The seduction of Theodore had been filled with such unexpected pleasure up to this point, she was blindsided by the sudden agony.
She shouldn’t be surprised. It was the least she deserved for this kind of subterfuge.
He held himself immobile, as if he knew what she felt.
For good or ill, the deed was done. Her future was decided. Theodore would marry her now. She ought to be happy, but a tear escaped from the corner of her closed eye and slid wetly into her ear.
“No more pain now,” he said and kissed her cheeks.
Her eyes flew open. It was still too dark to see his face, but there was no mistaking his voice.
The man who moved inside her with slow sure strokes was not Theodore, not the dear boy who would marry her happily and make everything all right.
It was Griffin Titus Preston Nash, Lord Devonwood.
C
HAPTER
22
U
sually when Devon remembered his dreams, they were fuzzy and fleeting, mere snatches of images. He’d never experienced such a vivid night-phantom before, alive with all the sensations and smells and tastes of a wicked good swive.
And he’d never had a dream in which he was so aware that he was dreaming, as if he were watching himself from outside his body while at the same time enjoying every jolt of pleasure, every ache of need.
He covered her mouth with his again, unable to get enough of the honey inside. It didn’t seem right that he had to cause her pain when she eased his so sweetly.
Emmaline was Devon’s private poppy field. She was his mindless oblivion, his endless euphoria, and pleasure beyond his deserts.
But not beyond his guilt, unfortunately. A pang of self-reproach lanced him when a thought of his brother wandered into his mind. He slammed the door on it with force. He’d sort that out later. A man’s dreams were his private business. For now, through no fault of his own, he found Emmaline, sweet and soft and gasping, beneath him.
He started to move, slowly so as not to cause her any more discomfort. Even if none of this was real, her pain seemed as real to him as if it were his own. Her body stiffened under him, though inside she was wet and pliant. He deepened their kiss and then, to his joy, she relaxed. She began to move with him, lifting her hips to meet his thrusts.
His world melted in heat and friction. The bed creaked out a frenetic rhythm. Blood pounded in his cock and pressure mounted in his shaft. His ballocks drew tight in preparation for his release.
If he’d not still been convinced this was nothing but a Glenlivet-induced wet dream, he’d have recognized the warning signs of impending release. Taking a maidenhead was one thing. Siring a bastard was another.
A gentleman ought to withdraw out of courtesy to the lady who offered up such a sweet gift. Even in a dream, Devon wanted to do right by his bedmate.
But this was Emmaline. His laudanum. His ease. He never wanted this joining to end, even if it was only a fantasy. He could no more pull out than he could stop himself from bleeding if he were cut.
The force of his climax made his back arch as he drove himself in as deeply as possible. When he growled out his pleasure, she covered his mouth with her fingertips and made a shushing noise.
Even though his body continued to riot, her “Sh!” was a dash of cold water. If this were a dream, she wouldn’t try to silence him. She’d join him in noisy rapture.
He couldn’t think. The thickest London fog took up residence in his mind. The absence of pain, the residual alcohol in his veins, and the sweet relief of his release conspired to drag him back to oblivion. But before he sank into the deep sleep of the thoroughly sated, one thought resonated in his brain.
This was real.
“Oh, please be quiet,” Emmaline whispered.
His stiff member still pulsed inside her. If she weren’t so afraid of discovery, the wonder of holding him as his seed spurted in hot gushes would make her cry out with him. Feeling his pleasure was an echo of hers.
But if someone else heard him and found them like this, she’d be ruined. Theodore would be devastated. Perhaps he’d even do something boyishly stupid like challenging his brother to a duel.
The thought turned her blood to ice water.
While Devon would feel honor-bound to meet a challenge, he probably wouldn’t feel obligated to marry her. It would be unheard of for a man of his station to do so. If he ended up killing his brother over her, he’d hate her forever.
She’d hate herself.
Then Devon’s seed stopped pumping into her and her insides contracted once in response. He sighed deeply and his full weight bore down on Emmaline.
She pushed on his shoulders, but he didn’t budge.
His breathing was deep and even.
The infernal man’s fallen asleep!
Irritation fizzed in her belly till it occurred to her that this was better than having to talk to him right now.
What on earth could she say?
Pardon me, milord. My mistake. I thought I was surrendering my maidenhead to your brother.
She eased out from under him. A bit of the Brussels lace at her hem ripped. She reached down to feel the tear and discovered the embellishment hadn’t come completely unfastened. It could be mended.
She could not.
Emmaline tiptoed to the door and eased it open. The hall was deserted so she slipped out and hurried back to the Blue Suite and into her chamber. She turned up the gas lamp and poured water from the pitcher into the ewer on her washstand. Then she pulled off her chemise and scrubbed herself with a wet cloth.
Her inner thighs were slightly streaked with red. No amount of soap and water would fix this.
Her hands shook with delayed tremors. Her plan had gone so horribly wrong.
What was Griffin doing in Theodore’s bed?
She sank into the chair before the ornately scrolled French vanity. Her reflection wavered back at her, her hair disheveled, her lips kiss-swollen. Her dark eyes, normally bright, were heavy-lidded and her gaze decidedly knowing.
Yes,
she decided,
sensual experience leaves its mark.
Deep inside, her soul shivered. It had been torn as surely as her maidenhead. Part of her was relieved, glad even, that it had been Griffin instead of Theodore in that bed. Though the mistake ruined her carefully crafted plan, there was an odd sense of rightness about how she and Griffin fit together.
She had wanted it to be him, she realized, whether it advanced any sort of plan or not.
Emmaline drew a deep breath and considered what to do. When a long confidence scheme went wrong, Monty either altered the play or folded shop and skedaddled before the constabulary took an interest in their activities. She couldn’t bother him with decisions about strategy now.
Not about this.
She went to her chifferobe and rifled through her undergarments for the Tetisheri statue. Then she stood it on the burled oak piece and stared at it for a moment. The figure’s enigmatic smile seemed to suggest a new gambit.
It was risky, but so was every other option open to her at this point. After losing her maidenhead, she had very little else to lose.
She would tell Griffin the truth. About the statue. About her and Monty. About why she’d come to his bed.
About everything.
Emmaline swallowed hard. After all their carefully crafted blandishments and prevarications, she was reduced to using candor, a fragile commodity at best. Truth was most effective when used sparingly, not slathered willy-nilly like clotted cream on a scone, yet she was planning to ladle it out wholesale. Monty had taught her to mistrust truthfulness on principle, but she’d heard somewhere once that it would set one free.
She hoped that wasn’t a lie.
One way or another, she’d find out tomorrow.
 
O’Malley finished his story and waited for his lordship to say something. It occurred to him, now that he’d already admitted to failure, that this was a message that might have waited till the morning light. He wished he’d thought of that before he talked his scullery maid doxy into delivering a note to Lord Kingsley asking for a moment of his time, despite the lateness—or earliness, depending on how a body looked at it—of the hour. At least his employer should appreciate the fact that there was little chance of anyone seeing O’Malley call at his house at this ungodly time.
The scowl on the gentleman’s face did not seem at all appreciative.
Mighta saved meself the trouble.
“What do you mean you didn’t get it?” His lordship slammed his fist on the desk with such force, the inkwell shuddered and black sludge oozed over the lip of the bottle and onto the ancient walnut. “I thought the house was deserted. Surely you had ample time to find it.”
“The butler come back before I finished me search,” O’Malley admitted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
He’d been surprised by the fight in the smaller man and fled the scene with a gash over his left eyebrow. The bleeding had all but obliterated the sight in one eye till he got someplace where he could clean himself up.
“The statue weren’t in the professor’s room,” he said. “I’ll swear to that.”
“Then it must be in the daughter’s. Devonwood doesn’t keep a safe. Even the family jewels are stored off the premises in his solicitor’s vault.” Kingsley stood and paced like the caged leopard O’Malley had seen once at the Queen’s menagerie. “When can you go back for it?”
O’Malley’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly. He wasn’t built for stealth. If he tried to burgle the room while the girl was in it, she’d be certain to hear him. He’d seen her earlier in the evening when the earl bundled her into a hansom. Her delicate neck would snap like a twig if he could bring himself to do it. He’d gotten away with murder once before back in Hampshire when a whore thought he was asleep and tried to make off with his purse.
But committing the same crime twice was tempting fate.
And the professor’s daughter weren’t no whore. Inquiries would be made and O’Malley might be tracked down. The Peelers were getting too smart by half these days. There wasn’t much on earth that scared Tom O’Malley, but he was mortal afeared of the hangman’s hemp.
“After a house once has a visit from a burglar, folks tend to be more particular about things,” O’Malley explained. “Won’t be leaving the place empty no more, I shouldn’t think. The earl might even hire some extra help to guard the place through the night. At the least, Devonwood House’ll be locked up tight as a drum. I’d have to break a window to get in and I don’t need to tell you, that’s not a quiet sort of thing.”
His employer narrowed his eyes and set his mouth in a hard line. A muscle in his jaw jerked.
“You may have a point,” he conceded. “The earl’s household is removing to their country seat in a few days. I don’t suppose you know a highwayman or two you could press into service for a wayside theft.”
O’Malley frowned. What with the military traffic on the roads and the Peelers growing in force almost daily, the days when a man could make a living by ordering folk to “stand and deliver” were long gone. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard of a successful highway robbery.
Besides, a highwayman made off with jewels and banknotes, not granite statues. What an idea! Sometimes, he wondered if his lordship was right in the head.
“I’ll have to see to it myself,” Kingsley said softly; then his gaze darted to O’Malley as if he hadn’t intended to say that aloud. “You will hie yourself to Shiring-on-the-Green. The village is a short walk from Devonwood Park. Stay at the
Boar and Thistle
. They keep an excellent cellar, but I expect you to stay sober. If I send for you, you must come immediately.”
“Where will ye be, milord?”
An oily smile spread over the gentleman’s face. He picked up a neatly addressed envelope and waved it in the air. O’Malley thought he scented a light floral fragrance. “I’ll be one of the houseguests at Devonwood Park, of course.”
BOOK: Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3)
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