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Authors: Mia Marlowe

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BOOK: Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3)
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“Gryphons are mythological, remember.”
“I know, but it’s a charming thought in any case,” she said. “Fidelity is something to be prized.”
So was loyalty to a brother, but Devon still felt an undeniable pull toward Miss Farnsworth.
“I’m no coquette, Lord Devonwood, no debutante out to snag a husband. More of my life has been spent in lecture halls and on archaeological digs than in ballrooms. I speak Italian and French, but have no idea how to use the language of the fan. I’m not adept at this sort of game. I hadn’t considered that there are ways a woman might encourage a man without meaning to,” she said. “Just so there’s no mistake in the future, would you mind telling me why you thought I wanted you to kiss me this afternoon?”
“Well, first there’s your directness,” he said. “Your frankness of expression invites a man to be straightforward about his wishes right back.”
“That hardly seems fair.” She twirled the camellia stem between her fingers, making the blossom spill fresh scent between them. “You mean a woman must parse her words and discuss only safe topics like the weather lest she seem to be encouraging a man’s advance?”
“I don’t make the rules.”
“And don’t play by them either, I’ll wager,” she said with a knowing grin.
“You have me there.” Devon cocked his head in a self-deprecating gesture a certain widowed viscountess had once assured him was most charming. He might have saved himself the trouble. Miss Farnsworth edged away, not seeming the least charmed.
“Very well. I shall confine myself to meteorological observations in your presence.” She straightened to her full, if inconsiderable, height and looked up at him. “Spring has already been quite sultry. As I’m unaccustomed to English weather, perhaps you could enlighten me. Do you think the summer will be sweltering?”
“Ah, Miss Farnsworth, you’ve erred once again,” The orangery was humid enough to suggest a tropical Eden. A flash image of Emmaline Farnsworth, in glorious peach-toned nakedness, blushing as Eve never did, scrolled across his mind’s eye. Everything about this woman conspired to make him feel achingly male. “When you speak of anything as sultry, a man’s thoughts turn immediately to sweat-dampened sheets and bodies without clothing writhing upon them.”
Her dark eyes flared wide. “Not a gentleman’s thoughts surely.”
“All men’s thoughts. Ditch-digger or duke. Trust me in this.”
“So a woman is unable to speak her mind on anything without danger of misunderstanding?”
“It pains me to admit it, but beneath our civilized trappings, all men are dogs.” Devon shrugged. “It’s the nature of the beast.”
“Very well. I shall embrace silence when I am in your company.” Her generous lips clamped shut.
“I’m not sure that’s the best course either. Silence begs to be filled and not necessarily by speech.” He moved closer to her but this time she didn’t edge away. Her peach scent tantalized him over the citrusy fragrance of the orangery. “We all surround ourselves with a bit of unoccupied room. If a man encroaches on a woman’s space and she doesn’t offer to correct him, he can’t be blamed for feeling a tacit welcome.”
“So that which is not expressly forbidden is assumed to be accepted?”
She still didn’t step back, didn’t shy away.
He braced a hand on the palm tree trunk over her shoulder and leaned toward her. “Yes.”
“I see.” She worried her lower lip a bit, long enough to make him wish he could suckle it as well. “So you think because I don’t run from you like a scared rabbit, I want you to kiss me again.”
“The thought has occurred to me.”
“Don’t entertain it. As you pointed out, I’m a very direct person,” she said, focusing her gaze somewhere between his chin and sternum with only occasional nervous flicks upward to meet his eyes. “Rest assured. If I wanted a kiss from you, I would initiate one myself.”
“I doubt that.” He laughed. “What a terrified little bunny you are. Look at yourself. You’re frozen like a coney with a hound sniffing nearby. Too addlepated to even look me in the eye, let alone kiss me.”
“Don’t be so sure.” She glared up at him, annoyance glittering in her dark eyes now.
“I’m rarely wrong about this sort of thing.”
“You are this time. Consider me an exception to the rule.” She reached up, cupped both his cheeks, and kissed him right on the mouth.
C
HAPTER
8
E
mma intended to give him a resounding smack, a mere exclamation point of a kiss, simply to emphasize her words. But his mouth was so beguiling, so firm and warm, she found herself lingering like an unfinished sentence, dangling midair in search of a rational conclusion. His arms circled round her with a rightness that belied the wrongness of the kiss.
He’d goaded her to this, as surely as a lamb driven to market.
And she’d allowed him to.
Whatever is not expressly forbidden is assumed to be accepted.
She hadn’t forbidden him. Worse, she hadn’t forbidden herself.
His masculine scent, rich with bergamot and sandalwood, tangled up with the perfume of the orangery. It was a gentle assault on her senses, but it bore down with unrelenting persistence, like the trickle of water that will eventually hollow out solid rock.
His mouth moved surely on hers, tempting her to tarry in the sweet wickedness of this moment.
Even though she knew everything about this kiss, this moment, this man, was wrong, she couldn’t pull herself away from the torrent of sensation. His lips on hers stirred up an inner storm. It was like heat lightning sparking across a summer sky, crackling with both potent energy and potential disaster.
Oh, Lord, not another inappropriate thought about the weather.
It brought back his comment about sweat-dampened sheets and bare bodies. Coupled with Devon’s kiss, the mental image made her feel achy and swollen.
Needy.
Ready to writhe on a sweat-dampened sheet.
Emmaline had always been a very private person. The idea of being that close to another human being with nothing to shelter behind was daunting. She was aware of the mechanics of sexual congress. She knew what transpired between a man and a woman, knew what would be expected of her should she ever become a wife, but until she’d kissed Griffin Titus Preston Nash, Lord Devonwood, she’d never understood how a woman might
want
to engage in such intimacies.
How would it feel to be all tangled up with this man, slick and wanting? Bare of soul as well as body?
It would be wicked and wanton and wonderful all at once. She was hollow with longing.
Her insides clenched as his tongue swept into her mouth in a soft, moist parody of how their bodies might join in other ways. That other connection, the sinful one that was topmost in her mind, would not be soft like his kiss. It would not be sweet.
It would be a possession. A claiming. A rutting, swiving, shagging, fu—
No.
She’d heard those coarse words plenty of times. Her father’s fellow confidence artists were not known for delicacy of speech except when it suited their schemes. But she’d never said those words. Never even thought them.
Till now.
Now they were all she could think. The aching hollow inside her longed to be filled. She imagined how it would be, stretched out with Devon on those sweat-soaked sheets.
In. Out. Hard. Bruising, even.
Her body didn’t seem to mind this mental ravishment. In fact, it cheered this line of thought by weeping fresh moisture and speeding up the drumbeat of urgency that pounded between her thighs.
Devon released her mouth and began to kiss his way down her throat to her bared décolletage. Her nipples hardened painfully, throbbing for his touch. If his uneven breathing was any measure, he wanted her as badly as she craved him.
His need touched her in a deep sheltered place and made her chest constrict. She ran her hand through his dark hair, reveling in the newfound sense of feminine control she felt as he worshiped the exposed parts of her breasts.
Control,
Monty always preached.
Control of the mark. Control of the information. Control of every aspect of the situation spells the difference between the success and failure of the long confidence game.
It was his primary rule. Her heady illusion of control over the earl was just that. Illusion. She was playing with forces beyond her experience.
And she was further jeopardizing Monty’s chances in the big game with each passing moment she spent in this lovely, filthy diversion with Theodore’s brother. If her waywardness led to their being thrown to the streets, what would become of Monty then?
Devon’s hand slid into her bodice, claiming a breast. Desire seared from her nipple to her womb in a lightning flash of wanting.
“Griffin,” she whimpered. “Please.”
“Of course, I’ll please you. Anything you want,” he murmured into the hollow of her décolletage. He lifted her breast, exposing a nipple above the cream and rose bodice, and flicked it with his tongue.
Oh, God
.
How to stop. How to end this delicious torment.
She didn’t think she had the strength.
He took the taut peak into his mouth and she thought she might turn into a puddle on the orangery floor.
Hoping to gain resolve, she tried to recall Theodore’s face. Even though she’d spent almost every waking moment with him for the last three months, his features were hazy or at best mere shadows of Griffin’s sharper ones.
With supreme effort, she called up Monty in her mind. She couldn’t disappoint him like this. He needed her to keep her head, to think strategically, and not get swept up in wanton dalliance.
“Griffin,” she said again, barely aware her lips were moving.
“Hmmm?” He kissed his way back up to her mouth while his finger and thumb continued to torment her.
She pressed a hand over her breast to still its silent pleading. Lord Devonwood’s lips were but a finger-width’s from hers. His face seemed different.
Sensual. Vulnerable. As if he’d shed his title and was simply a hungry man like any other, intent on working his way under her skirt.
But no matter who he seemed to be, it didn’t change who she was. Or what she had to do.
“Stop,” she pleaded.
He kissed her again and her insides continued to melt. She’d had no idea she could ache so.
“Please,” she moaned into his mouth.
He stopped and looked down at her, still rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Every fiber of her being was intent on his wicked byplay. Who’d have suspected the needs of that tiny bit of flesh could so consume her?
“You’re quite certain that’s what you want?” he asked.
“No,” she admitted, “but we must.”
He still didn’t release her, didn’t decrease the gentle pressure on her nipple. She slid her hand between her exposed skin and his damnably talented fingers, to shield herself from his touch.
“I beg you.” She wished he knew what it cost her to whisper those words.
Devon straightened to his full height and looked down at her, something like anger glinting in his burnished pewter eyes. He gave a shuddering snort of frustration as he took a half step away from her.
“Well, this is an improvement over a knee to the groin,” he said with a sardonic smile. “But only by the slimmest of margins. Perhaps next time we should fit you with a bell. Like a pugilist who’s had enough, you can ring to signal when the round has ended.”
She shoved her tender breast back into the bodice, biting her lower lip against her body’s riotous protest. She definitely hadn’t had enough.
“That would presume you know how to fight fair, and we both know that’s not the case,” she accused.
“How so? Whatever the rules are, they don’t seem to apply to us,” he said, his tone still husky with lust. “And if there are any, you set them for this little interlude yourself when you kissed me, so you can’t rightly complain. You don’t seem a stickler for fairness. I’ll set the rules next time.”
How could she admit her own body had turned against her, causing her to trample every rule she’d ever embraced? “There will be no ‘next time.’ ”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he grumbled under his breath. “We’ve been alone exactly three times and you’ve been in my arms for two of them. At least, tell me you’re not still considering my brother.”
“You know I haven’t accepted Theodore’s suit and . . .” Her mouth fell open. “That’s why you made sure this would happen again. You don’t care a thing about kissing me. Your only interest is in seeing Teddy and I go separate ways.”
“Yes, er, no. That’s not why I kissed you. Christ, you make me sound like a monster, ravishing my brother’s intended solely for the sake of controlling him. And for the record,
you
kissed
me
this time!” He paced the small space, nervous energy crackling off him like static electricity. “I want only the best for him. If that turns out to be you, Miss Farnsworth, so be it. Whatever you may think, I do care about Teddy.”
“As do I.” Emmaline folded her hands before herself, fig-leaf fashion. They were trembling and she didn’t want him to see. The earl was a powerful man. No doubt he wouldn’t be moved by weakness. It would only encourage him to press her for further indiscretions. She had to be strong. “I don’t want to hurt him. If Theodore and I part ways, I don’t want it to be because of a scandal between you and me.”
He stopped pacing. “I don’t want that either.”
She drew courage from their shared affection for Teddy. Surely Devon wouldn’t want to injure him with the unsavory little truth that they couldn’t seem to keep their hands off each other if they were left alone for longer than a few minutes. “We must simply make sure we aren’t presented with an opportunity for foolishness again.”
“It didn’t feel foolish to me,” he admitted.
She squeezed her eyes shut. No, foolish was the wrong word. It felt wonderful . . . exhilarating . . . strangely right. But of course it couldn’t be, could it? That was her body reasoning, not her head. Certainly not her heart. “I mean we must try not to be alone with each other.”
“That will be easier said than done.”
“Not if we both commit to it.” Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, in her chest, and lower down where the wicked ache still throbbed. “I don’t know what else to do. In all honesty, Lord Devonwood, this sort of thing has never happened to me before.”
One of his brows arched in surprise. After their shared passion, she almost wouldn’t blame him for not believing her a virgin.
“Oh, I rather think we’re past the Lord Devonwood stage, don’t you?” He fixed her with a pointed gaze.
At least he didn’t doubt her innocence aloud. She could’ve kissed him again.
“I liked when you called me Griffin,” he said.
“Yes, well . . .” She liked calling him that. It suited him far better than Devon. “But using your Christian name implies the sort of intimacy we’ve agreed is not in Theodore’s best interests.”
“What about
our
best interests?”
In that one word she saw a logical way out of her quagmire. Cynical, but logical.
“Our? There is no ‘our,’ no ‘us.’ You were upset enough that my name might be linked with your brother’s, and he’s not a true titled lord. As I understand your system, he’s actually as common as I. But you, you’re not a man who can ignore such things, milord. You’re a . . . an embodiment of an estate, for pity’s sake. There’s no way you’d ally your earldom with an American commoner. You and I both know there can never be anything between us other than a liaison that involves a wink and a nod.” She lifted her chin. “I may not be a titled lady, but I’ll be no man’s mistress.”
Why should she when Theodore offered her marriage? His suit glittered with more hope now that she considered it afresh. Her chest brimmed with equal parts affection for Teddy and loathing for herself. True, he had never made her knickers twitch like his brother’s mere presence did, but Theodore had also never tried to seduce her into wantonness either.
He
respected
her.
More than she respected herself, evidently.
What had she been thinking when she’d kissed Lord Devonwood? If she were being truthful with herself, she’d admit she hadn’t been thinking. She had simply acted on instinct, and that was not the best course. Hadn’t Monty told her about strange little Scandinavian rodents called lemmings that hurled themselves into the sea for no apparent reason? She’d kissed Theodore’s brother on the same sort of self-destructive impulse.
She hadn’t expected he would kiss her back with such devastating disregard for sense, too.
Emmaline cleared her throat. “Now, milord, if you’ll please convey my regrets to the rest of the party in the parlor, I think it’s high time I retired for the evening.”
She dipped in a shallow curtsey and started past him. He caught her by the elbow.
“No, you don’t. You’re not getting off that easy. If I have to face Teddy with the scent of you still in my nostrils, you have to be there, too,” he said harshly. “Call it a condition for not going to my brother immediately with word of our indiscretions.”
BOOK: Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3)
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