Confessions of a Scoundrel (14 page)

She made a very unladylike snort, one that made him grin. “Follow me, St. John. And you are not to repeat one single word of this to anyone.” She went to the door and yanked it open.

Herberts fell forward and landed face first on the rug.

Verena glared. “Herberts! No eavesdropping!”

The butler struggled to his feet. “Me? Listenin' in? No, m'lady. Oiye, ah, was just washin' the door.”

“With your ear? How odd. Now step aside.”

Herberts crossed his arms over his chest. “Ye aren't really goin' to take that blighter to yer chambers, are ye?”

“I made a wager.”

“And oiye'll make a wisty caster o' his face, see if oiye don't. Oiye can't stand aside and jus' let ye ruin yerself. Oiye've principles, oiye do.”

Brandon doubted that, but he wisely didn't say a thing.

“Herberts, you are not to get involved in my affairs.” Verena went out the door to the hallway, both men following her. The butler rushed to get in front of her, stopping her on the bottom step.

“For the love of—” she began, exasperation heavy in her voice. “Am I to be plagued with stubborn men all evening? I made a wager, Herberts.”

“Oiye heard already. Oiye just wish ye'd made a better one.”

Verena sighed. “Me, too. However…” She lifted her head, her eyes alight. “Ah!”

Brandon frowned. “What?”

“I just thought of something.” She pinned him with a triumphant gaze. “No one said that the kiss had to be made in private. If I want, I may have a chaperone with me.”

Brand scowled. “I don't recall anything about allowing you to have a chaperone—”

“Nor will you recall saying that I could not have one, either. Therefore, I may have one if I wish. Herberts, you may serve as chaperone.”

The rustle of silk whisked past Brand and up the stairs, Verena's blond hair passing just below his nose. “Are you coming, Mr. St. John? I haven't all night.”

He watched her climb the stairs, certain that every saucy twitch and sway was purposefully done to taunt him.

Herberts stood beside him, watching as well. After a moment, the butler sighed. “Oiye hopes ye aren't mad, guv'nor. Didn't mean to interfere. It's not that oiye thinks ye aren't a good man, ye didn't lay a finger on her all evenin' and ye was alone with her fer some time. Thet says a lot, it do.”

“Thank you.”

“And oiye don't blame ye one bit fer wantin' yer kiss. It's just that the missus…she done good by me and oiye ain't a bloke as what'll ferget it. So come along now. Ye'd best get yer kiss quick-like afore she asks Cook and Peters to watch, as well.”

Brandon had the distinct impression that the butler would have slung an arm about his shoul
der if he'd thought for one moment that the gesture would be welcomed.

Brand sighed and put his foot on the bottom step. Suddenly, he stopped. “Herberts, do you like my watch?”

The butler raised his hands. “Oiye didn't take yer ticker, oiye didn't!”

“I know that. It's right here.” Brand reached into his pocket and pulled out his new watch. “How would you like to have it?”

The butler blinked. “Whot's this?”

“I'll give it to you. Right now.”

Herberts's gaze fastened on the watch, a strange hunger gleaming in his eyes. “What'll oiye haf to do?”

“Just take your time climbing those stairs.”

Herberts looked at the watch, then back at the stairs. “How much time? Oiye don't want the missus mad at me. She can cast a powerful evil eye when she's o' the mind.”

“Five minutes.”

“Five—oh no, guv'nor. Oiye know what can happen in five minutes.”

“Two minutes, then. I just want the kiss to be…memorable.” Brandon could see that the man was wavering. “I'll give you my word as a gentleman that I won't do anything to cause her to protest.”

Brandon took the watch and held it up to eye level, the silver case flashing in the light. “What do you say?”

The butler swallowed, his gaze glued to the swinging watch. “Oiye shouldn't.”

“Herberts, I promise I will not hurt her. I'm here because I merely want the kiss that is due me.”

Herberts looked Brand right in the eye, studying him for all he was worth. Whatever he saw there seemed to satisfy him, for he gave a brief nod and said, “It
is
a long stairwell.”

“Yes.”

“And oiye do haf a bad knee.”

Brand dropped the watch into the butler's outstretched hand. It disappeared much as his coin had earlier.

“Two minutes and not a bloomin' second more,” Herberts said.

Brandon didn't wait. He bounded up the stairs, wincing as he landed on his bruised foot. He reached the landing in record time, but found himself faced with an impossibly long row of doors. Damn it! Which one—

“Are you coming?” Verena stood in the last door on the left.

Brand closed the distance between them.

Verena leaned to one side and looked past him. Surely Herberts was close behind. “Where's Herbe—”

Strong, warm hands closed about her arms and before she could say a word, she was whisked into the room. Brandon closed the door, turned the key in the lock, then leaned against it, his arms folded across his broad chest.

Verena found it difficult to swallow. He was still wet from the rain, his shirt glued to him, outlining every muscle. “Wh-where's my butler?”

“Coming up the steps as we speak. We haven't
much time.” He shoved himself from the door and strode forward. “I want my kiss.”

“Wait until Herberts—”

“Do you really want one of your servants to see this?”

“I don't want anyone to see,” she said hotly. “Not even me. In fact, I don't want to be kissed at all.”

“Then you shouldn't have wagered.”

“I didn't want to, but you
challenged
me and that is just as bad.”

He caught her arms and pulled her forward. “No more talking.”

“But I have a lot more to say—”

He buried his face in her neck, his lips trailing a heated path to her left ear, sending shivers of delight up her spine. “You have more to say now?” he murmured against her skin. “After all our delightful double talk? I fear my brain would explode with the strain.”

She tried to control the wash of hot lust that threatened to consume her. “If you think your brain in danger of exploding, then please let me know so that I may ring for a rag to stuff in your ears. I cannot have what little brain you possess leaking on my new rug.”

He lifted his head and looked down at her, his hands splayed on her waist. “You're a hard-hearted woman, did you know that?”

She returned his look with a frank one of her own, an unbidden smile lifting the corners of her lips. Brandon's breath caught in his chest. In the glow of the lamp downstairs, she had appeared
perfect—her golden hair curled about her face, flawless skin, straight nose—but here, in his arms, he could plainly see the faint scattering of pale freckles on the bridge of her nose. Better yet, he could see that her lower row of teeth were slightly uneven. For some reason, those slight imperfections made her all the more attractive.

“Ow!” Herberts said from the top of the stairway, his voice theatrically loud. “Oiye stubbed me toe.”

Brand was out of time. “My kiss.” He lowered his mouth and took what belonged to him. This was what he'd wanted since the first moment he'd seen her, when she'd turned and smiled at him—to have her here, inside his arms, her body against his. His lips covered hers, his tongue stroking hers. She opened for him, moaning softly, the sound a torment in itself.

Heat exploded through him, sizzling, searing, imprinting the taste of her on him forever. Never had he felt this for any woman.

A knock sounded on the door.

Verena ignored it, pulling Brandon closer, her hands twined in the loose folds of his shirt. He kissed with a fervor that matched her own, his hands moving possessively over her, cupping her body, holding her against his hardness. The wetness of his shirt soaked through her dress, sending shivers of delight across her skin.

“M'lady?” Herberts's voice echoed his alarm. He knocked on the door. “Are ye well?”

Was she well? She was on fire, her body quivering with heat, with passion. She wanted Brandon St. John in her bed. She wanted to feel him inside her, filling her, as she knew he would. It had been
so long since anyone had touched her. So long since she'd allowed a man close enough for even this, a simple kiss.

But not a simple kiss, she realized, reluctantly pulling away. Though her entire body ached with need, she knew she had to stop it. “I-I think you've gotten your kiss.”

His lips traced a line across her cheek, to her neck. “Did I?” he murmured, his voice vibrating against her.

She closed her eyes, her arms still about his neck. “Yes.”

“M'lady?” The door shook as if someone was trying to pull it open. “Can ye hear me?”

“Answer him,” Brandon said, his delightful mouth now near her ear. “Tell him to go away.”

She should tell Brandon to go away, not Herberts, her logical brain told her. But her treacherous body disagreed. Heaven was so close, within a fingertip's touch away. Still, she couldn't—She pushed him away. “No.”

“No?”

“Not…I can't. I don't know you or why you came here or what you want or—”

He placed a finger over her lips. “I have questions for you, too. Are you brave enough to answer them?”

She jutted out her chin. “Are you brave enough to ask?”

Brandon's mouth curved into a smile, his eyes warm with laughter. “Tell Herberts to leave. You and I can settle this ourselves.”

He was right. They could settle this themselves. “Herberts?”

The rattling at the door stopped. “Aye?”

“Mr. St. John isn't here.”

There was a long pause. “Where'd he go then?”

“I don't know. But he never came in here. Perhaps he left while you were locking the front door.”

Again a long pause. “Perhaps he did, missus. Oiye suppose he could have slipped down the stairs.”

“Perhaps.”

“Or out the chimney,” Herberts continued in a sarcastic voice.

“Herberts?”

“Aye?”

“Good night.”

There was a loud sigh. “Very well, missus. Good night, missus. Good night, Mr. St. John.” And then Herberts left, his boots trudging loudly down the stairs, a complaint in each step.

B
randon looked down into Verena's eyes. “Herberts is gone. That leaves you and me.” “So it does.” She stepped out of his arms and attempted to straighten her gown. She pulled at the skirts, tugging them back into place, but there was no helping it—the entire front was soaked from where he'd held her, the material clinging to her awkwardly.

The sight was even more disturbing for Brand. He could see through her dress, easily making out the outline of her chemise, the thin ribbon that tied in the center of her cleavage, the full roundness of each breast. He'd thought he couldn't possibly get more aroused than he had been.

He was wrong.

She sighed her exasperation, then abandoned her attempts to straighten her gown. Verena clasped her hands together in front of her, her cheeks pink. “I suppose in sending Herberts away, I have made a decision of sorts.”

“Decision?” Brandon said somewhat dazedly. “What decision?”

“I thought you could stay here…with me.” When he looked at her in amazement, she colored and added in a hasty voice, “Not forever, or anything like that. I just thought we might be together without—Not that I don't want to, but we shouldn't think too much about—” She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. “Do you know what I'm saying?”

He almost choked. She was saying exactly what he'd said in one way or another to every woman he'd ever seduced. “Verena, perhaps it would be better if we just think of this as…” Good God, this was difficult. He raked a hand through his hair, then winced when a flurry of water dripped down his neck. “I don't think we need to qualify anything.”

Her brows lowered, the flyaway corners giving her a delicate fairy look. “I suppose you are right. It's not that important.”

Normally, Brandon would have found such a qualification reassuring—even though he was usually the one making minute differentiations on terminology and not his partner. But her protestations were having an odd effect on him. They weren't lessening his desire one jot. By God, he would regain some control of this seduction if it killed him.

The fact that Verena was taking such pains to place him at a distance, even as she admitted she wanted more physical contact, made him all the more determined to gain concessions from her—to prove that he was indeed in charge. That she wanted him in more than just her bed. “Verena, this…attraction. It's been there from the first day we met. There's nothing wrong with our acting on it.”

“If I thought there was anything wrong, I would never have suggested it. I was only pointing out that physical…” her face flushed before she continued, “…consummation does not necessarily mean that we will change our behavior toward one another. We are adults. We've both been about the world some. And there's no reason we should expect more.”

Bloody hell, but she was adorable. He wanted her. Wanted her now. Beneath him. Held without mercy so that he could prove to her how wrong her cool, logical ideas were. Their mating would be fiercely passionate, deeply sensual, and rich with feeling. This was no causal meeting of two equals. It was much, much more. He could feel it, taste it.

He knew it the same way he knew that though she tried to appear unaffected, her body tingled with yearning for his touch. “I disagree, sweet. I think by morning you'll find that we've far more of a relationship than you realize.”

The words hung hazily between them. Brandon wondered if perhaps he'd gone mad—surely
he
wasn't the one who'd just suggested that his liaison with this lush woman was something more.

But he
had
said it. Aloud, too, which was even more shocking.
Damn it, what am I thinking?

That was the problem—he wasn't thinking at all. She was who she was. An adventurer. A card turner. She was not the type of woman with whom one bothered to develop a lasting relationship. Perhaps he was merely reacting to the fact that she was attempting to diminish their affair.

His brow cleared. It was his pride, and nothing else. Relieved, he managed a grin.

She didn't seem to notice. She gave an absent wave of her hand and said, “I doubt it. But that's neither here nor there. Before we begin…” she gestured vaguely, “this…there are some things I want to ask you.”

This
. Never had one word held so much promise. A thin shiver crawled over his skin and he realized how chilled he was. She was stalling, but that was fine. He'd let her stall if only for a short time…it would make her burn all the more hotly when they finally came together.

He wiped a hand over his eyes. They stung as if on fire. A slow, heavy lethargy seemed to be creeping over him, fueled by the flashes of lust Verena was causing by her very nearness. “We can discuss whatever you want,” he said hoarsely, “but first I must remove these wet clothes.”

Her eyes widened. “Remove your clothes? Now?”

“When should I remove them? During our discussion? That would be very rude.”

Her lips quivered and to his immense delight, she reached out and undid the top button of
his waistcoat. “I rather thought we'd undress together—after we talked, of course.”

Together. The two of them. Removing their clothes. God, but she was a brassy piece. He found that he rather liked that. Liked it and wondered how far it went. “What would you like to talk about
before
we remove our clothes?”

“There are some questions I want to ask you.” Her violet gaze met his steadily. “Several.”

He rubbed his throat, though it itched deep inside. “Fair enough. I have some questions I want to ask you, too. Who goes first?”

She pursed her lips, an innocent gesture that nearly offset him. Her lips were the plump pink of a newly budded rose—sweet, curved, lush.

“You may go first,” she said finally.

Wonderful. Every fiber in his body yearned for her and she wanted to play Can You Guess. “May we at least sit?” He gestured toward the fireplace where one lone chair graced the room. He was certain he'd fall over if she continued to torment him so sweetly.

She glanced at the chair dubiously. “I suppose so. Shall I call for another chair?”

“Hell, no. I've had enough of Herberts for one day.” He caught her hand and pulled her toward the chair with him.

She followed willingly enough, though she said in an exasperated voice, “Mr. St. John—Brandon, it will only take a moment to have another chair brought—”

He sat, his hand still about her wrist, and pulled her down onto his lap. He settled her there,
her legs over the arm of the chair, her bottom firmly settled over his lap, her head tucked beneath his chin. She fit perfectly, as if she'd been made for him.

She sat for a stunned moment, then wiggled, trying to get up. He tightened his hold, though he let her squirm all she wished.

After a moment, he murmured, “You really shouldn't do that.”

“Why not—” She stilled, her eyes widening as she felt his erection against her bottom, muffled by her skirts. Her mouth made a perfect “o.” “I'm sorry. I hadn't thought of that.”

“Normally I wouldn't complain.” He rubbed her arm slowly, savoring the feel of her beneath his fingertips. Silky. Soft. Smooth. Everything a woman should be and more. “Are you certain you want to talk first?”

She didn't answer for a moment, but looked at him, her desire plain in her eyes.

He captured her chin. “Verena,” he whispered.

Her hand closed over his wrist. “Don't.”

“Don't what?”

“Don't tempt me. I'm not as strong as I thought.”

“Is it weak to want someone?”

“No. But it is weak if I forget that I'm here because—” She clamped her lips together.

Ah-ha. “Because?” He waited, but he could see that she was not going to answer. “Let me guess. You think it is weak if you forget that you are here for no other reason than I am the most virile man you've ever met.”

Her smile broke through once more, sunshine
on a dappled stream, lighting up the room and, in some strange way, his very heart.

“You, sir, are insufferable. Whether you believe it or not, you are not the topic of every conversation.”

“I may be insufferable, but you, madam, are a spoiled, willful woman.”

“Spoiled? By whom?”

“By your servants, and that blond Viking you lead around by the nose.” Just the thought of the man made Brandon growl. He didn't like the way Lansdowne looked at Verena, as if he knew her better than everyone else in the room, as if they shared secrets.

“Blond Viking?” She frowned for a moment, then suddenly chuckled. “You mean James!”

“Whatever his name is.” Brand had a few names he used to refer to the cretin, but he didn't think Verena would be amused.

“I shall have to use that the next time I see him—Blond Viking. I rather like that.”

Brandon scowled. “You are not to call him your blond anything.”

“Why not? It would embarrass him to death and that is one of my few pleasures.”

Brandon wished he'd bitten his own tongue off rather than give her a pet name for her latest amor. “Blast it to hell, I thought of the name and therefore it is mine to give to whomever I will. And I will not give it to you to use on that preening peacock that you like to have hanging about.”

Verena looked at him with suddenly wide eyes, a dawning expression on her face. “Brandon…you are jealous.”

“Of him? Don't make me laugh.”

Verena didn't feel the least like laughing. She felt every other emotion—excitement, fear, uncertainty, and lust—especially lust.

She eyed her captor narrowly, then shook her head. “You're jealous,” she repeated loftily. “I recognize the signs.”

His arm tightened and he slowly drew her against him until her chest was pressed to his. His face was only a few inches from hers, his blue eyes brilliant. “What is Lansdowne to you?”

She wasn't going to answer, but there was something sweetly possessive in the way Brandon's arm tightened, in the expression in his blue eyes. “James is a relative.”

“That's a damnably vague answer.” He leaned his forehead against hers, his skin hot to the touch. “Don't play games with me. I asked you an honest question; I expect an honest answer.”

She bit her lip. He had a point. She wasn't really sure why she was hiding the answer. Part of it came from years of conditioning—of never revealing more than absolutely necessary.

It was the way the Lansdownes lived; the way they still did. Still, her instincts bade her to count the cost…what would happen if Brandon knew her relationship with James? She tried to think of the negative possibilities and could not think of a one. “James is my brother.”

Brandon's brows lifted. “Your brother?”

“My one and only brother.”

To her surprise, it seemed as if Brandon's face relaxed, as if he was genuinely relieved. “Ah,” he said. “That explains a lot.” He eyed her consider
ingly. “You know, I hadn't thought of it, but now…I do see some similarities.” He lifted a finger and traced one of her brows. “Do you have any sisters?”

She placed her fingers over his lips. “It's not fair if you get to ask all the questions. I have some of my own, you know. I believe it is my turn now.”

His lips quirked. “Very well. What do you want to know?”

She wanted to ask him all sorts of things—did he like blond hair? Did he enjoy shorter women, or taller ones? What was his favorite color? Did he like butter on his toast—oh a thousand things. It was a pity she was held to one question at a time.

Verena toyed with his top button, feeling the heat radiate from his skin. She pushed away all the frivolous questions that were clamoring for answers and forced herself to focus on the problems at hand. “Why did you tell me about Humford? You said it as if you meant to shock me.”

A flicker of regret deepened his blue eyes to black. “I threw the information at you to see your reaction; I thought you already knew of his death.”

“I was horrified. How was Humford ki—”

Brandon placed his fingers over her lips. “It's my turn.”

The devil. He was remarkably good at making one play one's own games, a talent she used to relish, but now found irksome. She raised her brows and waited.

His gaze darkened, the levity slipping away. “Verena, what do you know of Humford's list? Have you found it?”

Her heart contracted. Dear God, he knew about
that, too. Did he also know about the indiscreet letters James was attempting to collect? The thought sent her heart pounding crazily in her chest and she pushed away, trying to get up.

But he held her firm, a frown between his brows. “Answer, Verena. Do you know where it is?”

She stopped struggling and gave him a considering look. Should she answer? Should she tell the truth? She knew how James would react in this situation—he wouldn't volunteer the least tidbit.

But then James still lived as Father had taught them, trusting no one, hiding who and what they were. Or he had until he'd fallen for a married woman with a careless pen and an eye for handsome young rakes.

Verena tried to sort out all the facts as dispassionately as she could, considering that she was sitting in Brandon St. John's lap, his deliciously warm body encircling hers. “I suppose it won't hurt to tell you what I know, which isn't a lot. I know that a list of some kind is missing. James and I, we've been looking for it, but it's not here.”

“Are you certain?”

“We've looked everywhere.”

His gaze met hers for the space of a second, then he sighed and rested his head against the high back of the chair, his arms loosening. A deep weariness seemed to cross over his face. “I was afraid of that. Verena, I must find that blasted list. I have to.”

What did he mean by that? What could possibly be in the list that the whole world was after it? Even the people holding those damning letters of James's were in on it now.