Confessions of a Scoundrel (13 page)

V
erena recognized Brandon's voice instantly. She also recognized the fury in his tone. Without another thought, she bit his hand, nipping forcefully on the pad of his thumb.

“Damn!” He yanked his hand free and shook it in the air as if trying to shake off the pain like so much dust, leaving only one arm imprisoning her.

Verena lifted her foot and slammed it down on his instep. Thank heavens she was wearing her good French heels.

“Argh!”

She was released instantly. Verena could have made her way to the door. She could have screamed, too, and brought Herberts and the rest of her scanty staff to the rescue. She could have, she told herself as she relit the lamp.

The sight that met her eyes was infinitely gratifying. Brandon St. John was hopping up and
down, waving his hand like a child who had mashed his thumb in a doorway.

She bit her lip. It was sad that they were at such loggerheads, for she recognized in him a kindred spirit. Life came easy to Brandon St. John, just as it came easy to Verena. It made them both a little too confident, a little short-tempered with others, and a little arrogant.

“Oh, it's not that bad,” she said, as he fell to the settee and grabbed his foot with his uninjured hand.

“What kind of shoes do you have on?” he demanded, looking at his own leather boots.

She knew him to be an honorable man. So honorable he squeaked with it. So honorable that as he looked down his aristocratic nose at her, she couldn't help but realize that he had a point. She wasn't his equal in any sense of the word. She'd never admit it, of course, but she knew that she was in no position to argue about virtue and honor. “I cannot believe you broke into my house like a common criminal.”

He sucked on the pad of his thumb, his blue eyes blazing. “You have the sharpest teeth. Like a bloody ferret!”

“Are they? I've never had to resort to such physical expressions to make myself clear. I told you I had no wish to kiss you tonight.”

His eyes blazed. “You weren't going to kiss me at all, were you?”

She looked at the fire, wondering how he'd guessed. “Perhaps.”

His gaze narrowed. “Liar.”

“I am not a liar. I'm a prevaricator. There's a difference, you know.”

To her chagrin, he smiled. She tried not to return it and failed miserably. He really was charming in a gruff way, sitting on her settee and making it appear absurdly small. The rain had wet him through and through, his hair slicked back from his forehead, making his blue eyes all the brighter.

The door opened and Herberts stood in the opening. “M'lady, oiye thought oiye heard voices and—what the he—”

“Herberts!” Verena said, frowning.

He reddened. “Sorry, m'lady. Oiye was jus' shocked to see the gentleman still in the house.” The butler settled his shoulders and then made a show of cracking his knuckles. “Shall oiye fetch Peters and toss the bloke out the door?”

Verena looked at Brandon. He was so wet that his clothing stuck to him like a second skin. He had to be miserable. And she
did
owe him a kiss. Her gaze flickered over his mouth and she found that it was really quite difficult to swallow. “No, thank you, Herberts. That will be all.”

The butler's mouth opened and closed twice before he managed to stutter, “Ye want me to leave ye? Alone? Wif
him
?”

“Leave, Herberts. I can handle Mr. St. John.”

“Are ye sure, m'lady? Oiye kin stay if'n ye want me to. And Peters can come an—”

“I'll be fine. Please leave.”

Herberts backed slowly to the door. “Perhaps I should jus' stay a mite and see if ye needs some re
freshment. Do ye wants me to bring ye something to wet yer whistlers?”

“That won't be necessary,” Verena said. “Close the door.”

He sighed and pulled the door to. It had barely settled in place before he yanked it back open and stuck in just his head. “'Ere now, what was I thinkin'? Oiye fergot to mention that Mr. St. John is a wee bit damp. Perhaps oiye should bring him a cloth to dry—”

“Herberts.” The “s” lingered an unconscionable time.

He sighed. “Very well.” He shut the door with a disapproving
bang
.

Brandon stood and limped to the fireplace. “That is the most deplorably trained servant I've ever seen.”

“You haven't met my upstairs maid.”

“Your
upstairs
maid?” he said blandly, steam rising from his clothing. “I look forward to it. Perhaps we should retire there now and you can introduce me—”

“Just stop it!” A smile trembled on her lips. “You are incorrigible.”

“I'm determined.”

“In this instance, it's the same thing.” She shook her head. It was late at night, the rain creating a cozy feeling. It had been a long time since she'd shared a late-night conversation with a man. She crossed her arms, suddenly aware of how lonely she had been. Until now. “I don't know why you persist in this. You don't like me. You never have.”

“I want what is owed me.”

She eyed him for a long moment. “No. I don't think that is it at all. If you wanted your kiss, you would have already taken it. I think you want something else.”

Brand turned back to the fire, noting the faint steam curling from his sleeves. She was far more intelligent than he liked. “I've never said that I don't like you.” She started to respond and he held up a hand. “Trust…that is another thing.”

“What have I ever done to give you reason not to trust me? Ask your brother. Had I been of a different nature…” She shrugged. “But that is neither here nor there. I am not a woman who uses other people. I take care of me and my own. And that's all I have ever been guilty of.”

“Is that why you cheat at cards?”

Her color rose. “Who said I cheated?”

“Are you denying it?”

“No. But I'm not confirming it, either.”

He watched her with narrowed eyes. “I didn't come to argue with you, you know. I came to collect what's mine.” And she was right—he did want more than a kiss. She owed him far, far more than a simple embrace. She owed him for every cold, miserable minute he'd spent outside her house.

She sighed, frustration evident in every line of her body. “You, sir, are abominable.”

“And you, my dear Lady Westforth, are delectable.” He slowly crossed the room to her side. At least in that, there was some truth. She was beautiful, and the memory of her lush curves haunted him still.

He stopped in front of her and lifted a curl from her shoulder. The silken strands slid between his
fingers. Her hair was thick and heavy, surprisingly so.

“What are you doing?” Her voice was breathless.

“You have the most beautiful hair. It's the color of ripe wheat.”

She jerked away. “I refuse to believe that you broke into my house so that you could pay me compliments.”

He dropped his hand back to his side. “You are right; I'm not here to compliment you. And not just for the kiss, either. I'm here because I want to know—”

Her gaze darkened. “Know what?”

“All of your secrets.”

“Secrets? Why on earth would you think I have any secrets?” She opened her arms and gestured about the room. “Look about you, Mr. St. John. I am a simple woman. I love simple things. What could I possibly have to hide?”

She was good, he had to admit. There was something direct and guileless about the way she spoke. He was not fooled, but he
was
tired and wet and miserable, chilled through and through. And beneath that weariness was a slow burn of lust, brought on from her kiss last night and kept to life by her refusal to see him. That was why he was so determined to have her. She'd thwarted him and it was not a feeling he liked.

His gaze fell on a silver tray by the window, a bottle of amber liquid arranged with some glasses. He gestured toward it. “May I?”

“Of course. I apologize for not asking you sooner. It's not my habit to offer refreshments to housebreakers.”

Brand poured himself a drink. “Would you like some?”

“I don't drink.”

He grinned. “Not well, anyway.”

She hunched a shoulder in his direction and turned away.

Brandon carried his drink to a chair in front of the fire. “Come and join me, Lady Westforth.”

She made no motion to join him. “I'd rather you leave.”

“In this rain?” He made himself comfortable in one of the chairs.

“Afraid you'll melt?”

“No, but it's very unhealthy for devils to be cold. You might say it is against our nature.”

Her lips quivered. “At least you admit that much.”

“I will admit much more if you join me.” He took a sip of the liquid, sighing when it warmed a path down his throat to his chest.

Verena walked slowly toward him, her gaze considering. “Why are you here, Mr. St. John?”

“Right this moment, I'm enjoying my glass of brandy and the company of a beautiful woman. Later on…” He shrugged, watching her over the rim of his glass.

“You make me nervous when you compliment me. It doesn't ring true.”

“What do you expect? Incriminations?”

“No. Nothing so pleasant.”

He smiled. “Have just one drink with me.”

“I don't drink,” she repeated, though more softly this time.

“Except when playing cards?”

“I allowed my pride to choke my good sense. Normally, I only drink a glass of wine with my evening meal. It muddles the brain.”

“Which would be fatal in a woman who uses her brain so much.”

She sank into the chair opposite his, eying him warily. “You are determined not to like me, aren't you? I wonder why. Do I remind you of some other woman, one who has wronged you?”

He frowned at her over his glass. “I am not so silly as to punish you for something someone else did.”

“Then why do you seek to punish me at all?”

“I don't. I have no desire to hurt you.”

“Then what do you want?”

Brandon looked down into his glass. The fire reflected in the drink like red sparks in amber velvet. What
did
he want? He should be interested in one thing and one thing only—the truth. But if he were entirely honest, he would admit that he wanted—
her
. All of her. “I want the kiss you owe me.”

“Just that one, simple kiss?”

He nodded, meeting her gaze. Heat flared between them. It would not be only one kiss and there would be nothing simple to it. Brand's gaze dipped to her mouth and he marveled at the soft pink of her lips.

“If that's all you want, then take your bloody kiss and be gone.” Her nose curled in a way that
looked more like she'd tasted something sour than a woman about to be thoroughly seduced.

Brandon decided that it was a good thing that somewhere along the way, he'd made the decision that a kiss wasn't enough. The kiss itself was merely the opening shot in the battle to come. For that was what a kiss was—a weapon. A stealthily employed weapon that could, when yielded in the right circumstances, produce effects not unlike an explosion.

Brandon's body tightened at the thought of that explosion, of Verena's lips beneath his, of her body against his own. “You're right. I should just take my kiss and be gone.”

She folded her hands in her lap, pursed her lips, and closed her eyes.

Brand almost choked on a laugh. “What's that?”

She opened one eye. “A kiss.” The words were muffled since she didn't unpucker.

He chuckled then. “Stop that. I'm not even sure…” He looked about the room and shook his head. “No, not here.”

She opened both eyes, the pucker disappearing. “What do you mean ‘not here'?”

“It's too bright.”

“Bright? What difference does that make?”

He waved a hand. “I want the mood to be right. The ambiance of a romantic moment is a delicate thing.”

“Romantic? Who said our kiss had to be romantic?”

He cocked a brow at her. “I believe the conditions of the kiss were ‘when and where' I required it.”

She frowned and he could see that she was trying to recall the wording of their wager. “I think…perhaps we—”

“You may ask Jameson the next time you see him. Meanwhile, I require my kiss now and I want it…” He eyed her for a moment. “I want it in your bedchamber.”

She shot out of her chair like cannonfire, almost stumbling as she did so. “
What
?”

“You heard me. I want the kiss in your bedchamber.”

“You are not going to my bedchamber.”

“Reneging on your bet, aren't you? Why am I not surprised?”

“I am not reneging. You are taking unfair advantage of me.”

“No one forced you to accept that wager. Do you refuse to honor it?” He shrugged. “Of course, if you don't wish to do as you promised, I'm certain Lady Farley, the proprietress of that gaming hell you so love to frequent, would be glad to know of your tendency to back out of your obligations.”

Verena's jaw tightened. She plopped her hands on her hips and jutted out her chin. “No. I will not have you brandishing it about that I refused to honor my word, but…”

Brandon could see the struggle behind her serious gaze. If she was indeed making her living from the cards, she could not afford to have her name besmirched in such a way as to ruin her credit at the gaming hells. She knew that his word, as a St. John, would have a very powerful effect.

She sighed, annoyance in every line of her body. “Very well, St. John. Have it your way.
How
ever
, you will not tell a soul that I allowed you in my bedchamber. If I agree to this, it has to remain between us.”

He set his glass on a table and stood. “I am a gentleman.”