Confessions of a Scoundrel (16 page)

His body lost some of its tension and he laughed softly, gently rubbing his forehead against hers. “You're beautiful, did you know that?”

She wasn't beautiful. She was short, had a sad tendency to freckle at the first hint of sunlight, and possessed hips that obviously belonged to a much taller woman. But lying here before Brand's hot gaze, she realized that she
felt
beautiful, the sensation intoxicating.

He pressed her back against the pillows and placed his hand on her inner thigh. He lightly trailed his fingers up her thigh, to the damp tangle of curls. He paused for the briefest moment, then contined on, his fingers tracing a course across her slick folds. She gasped and arched into his hand.

“I want to taste you,” he growled again into her ear, his fingers stroking, sliding back and forth, driving her mad.

She ran her hands through his hair and pushed his head down, past her breasts, opening for him even as she gasped his name.

Brand accepted her gift, drank of her, suckling her soft feminine folds and tormenting her flesh with his tongue and teeth. Her movements grew more frantic and he increased his efforts, cupping her bottom and pressing her up. She grew slick with need. Her hands rippled through his hair, pressing him onward, encouraging him to continue.

He found the core, raking his teeth over the delicate spot. She gasped and then held still…frozen in place. Brandon intensified his efforts,
worshipping her in a way he'd never before worshipped any woman. With a frenzied jerk of her hips, she arched wildly, calling out his name. He closed his eyes at the sound, suckling her deeply, urging her on and on.

Finally she collapsed, spent and drained, her hand still threaded through his hair.

Brand's own body was rock hard, rigid with the effort to stay in control. While her breathing returned to normal, he sucked in slow breaths of air, willing his turgid flesh to give him more time to savor, more time to torment. If it killed him, he vowed that she would never forget this night.

Verena sighed deeply, then moved as if to close her legs.

“Don't,” he said, holding her knees apart. He bent to taste her one last time, reveling in her pleasure. “I love the way you feel beneath my mouth.” He placed kisses along her thighs and lower, where he stopped to place a kiss on the sensitive skin behind her knees. She moaned and moved restlessly.

Verena shivered, her skin flushed and glowing in the firelight. “You are going to kill me.”

“Ah, but what a lovely way to die,” he murmured. “Did you know that your toes curl when you're excited? Arched as if they, themselves, were having the ultimate pleasure.”

She lifted herself on her elbows and watched him, her lips parted, her thick blond hair falling over her brow and shoulders. She looked flushed and sinful, her lips swollen from his kisses, her entire body aglow from his caresses. He grew harder just looking at her.

He moved back to her side so that he could look her directly in the eyes. Such beautiful eyes, the lashes long and lush, the color startling—a pure violet, like a flower drenched in rain.

He traced her brows with his finger, then tipped up her chin. She threw her arms about his neck and pulled his mouth to hers, kissing him with every bit of her soul, her passion.

His control began to shred. His hands wandered feverishly, his body aching for release. “I must have you.”

Verena didn't think there were any more beautiful words in the entire English language. She followed his lead, letting her hands wander where they would. When they found his manhood, she wrapped her hands around his length, marveling in the velvet hardness. Heat seemed to radiate from his skin, through her fingertips, trailing through her like tendrils of delicate fire. She opened for him, rubbing the tip of him against herself.

He gasped. “Verena, please—”

“Take me,” she whispered, delighting in the torment on his face. She opened her legs beneath him, her hands on his hips, pulling him forward, toward her. She pressed herself against him, wrapping her legs about his hips.

He entered her, his fullness sending deep tremors through hers. Verena gasped, feeling herself stretch and wrap about him, her flesh yielding before his.

She burned beneath him and with him and for him, their movements increasing, growing more frantic. Verena felt him grow harder, thicker, his
manhood on the brink. She put her hands to his stomach and halted his motions.

He lifted himself on his elbow, poised above her, his face rigid as if he were in pain. “God, Verena,” he rasped. “What—”

She put her arms about his shoulders, lifting her leg over his hip. “Lay back, Brandon. Let me do it.”

Verena lifted herself up, pushing him back against the pillows and raising herself until she sat astride him, her knees on either side of his hips.

“Don't move,” she ordered, then boldly settled upon him, pressing downward, his flesh joining hers. It was heaven. Slowly, she began to move. Back and forth, each stroke pleasure and pain.

“Verena,” he gasped, his hands about her waist. “Don't—”

She stopped, leaning over him so that her hair brushed his broad chest. “What's wrong, St. John? Afraid? Because if you are, I'll stop.” She made as if to climb off, but he gripped her waist and held her there.

“I'm not afraid of anything.” His gaze burned into hers. “Especially not you. Never you.”

She closed her eyes, lifting her head, her hair falling down her back. His hands molded her hips, sliding up to her breasts. He pressed and kneaded, tormenting her nipples until she writhed on him. The feeling of being filled, of completion, of being joined—she gasped as a wave of bliss rippled through her, her body enveloping his, intimately holding him, squeezing him.

Brand's hands tightened on her waist and he held her firm, his own pleasure increased, com
pounded. He exploded in a surge just as she collapsed across him.

Moments later…or maybe it was hours…he realized she was still lying upon him, his arms tight about her as if he was afraid to loosen his grip. He smiled at the thought, rubbing his cheek against the satiny softness of her hair. “That was beautiful.”

She shifted as if to move, but he held her tight. “No,” he whispered. “I want to sleep like this.”

She chuckled against his chest and he smiled, relishing the feeling. He'd never felt this sort of peace. Never felt so comfortable, so…sated.

God, but she was wonderful. He found the blanket where it had been shoved to one side of the huge bed and he pulled it across her shoulders, tucking it about them both. “I don't want you to get cold,” he said, his own voice still raspy.

She snuggled against him. “It sounds as if you are the one catching cold.”

“Me? I'm never sick.”

“Don't tempt the fates, St. John,” she said, her yawn warming his skin. “They will get you every time.”

Brandon rubbed his cheek against her hair. She was pert. Saucy. Well read. Annoyingly right. And the most perfect woman he'd ever met. He could understand why Chase thought this woman might be able to hold his demons at bay. Brand was beginning to believe that Verena could do anything she wanted to.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead and snuggled deeper into the soft bedding. She had a wonderful
bed—the sheets crisp and smooth, enough pillows for twenty people, and an astonishingly thick down counterpane. The best part was that the entire bed smelled faintly of lavender.

He sighed contentedly. “I like your bed.”

“I like you in my bed,” she responded sleepily. “In fact, I'm almost certain that I like
you
. At times, anyway.”

“You should. I've had the devil of a time trying to get close to you.”

She lifted her head then, her eyes half closed with sleep, yet a faint spark of curiosity in their depths. “Why have you been trying to get close to me?”

Brandon realized that he didn't have an answer. At first he'd wanted nothing more than the whereabouts of Humford's list. But that was no longer true. Now he wanted more of
her
.

What he felt for Verena was fondness, admiration, and a hot lust. Especially hot lust. And for now, that was enough.

He grinned at her, cupping her chin and running his thumb over her kiss-swollen lips. “I wanted to get close to you because I was fairly certain you would kiss like an angel. I was right.”

Her disbelief was plain. She lifted a brow, and he marveled at the way her brows curved up at the ends.

“Is that all?” she asked, a stubborn note in her voice.

He held her chin between thumb and forefinger and tipped her head back so that she had to meet his gaze. “Do you want to know all my secrets, Verena? Everything?”

She looked at him for a long moment. Slowly, she nodded.

“Then tell me
your
secrets,” he whispered. “All of them.”

Her gaze darkened. She bit her lip, her lashes shadowing her eyes. He could see her considering, wondering, weighing the cost. Finally, she shook her head, her hair falling across her cheek as she reached up to kiss him, her lips brushing softly over his.

“Perhaps later on, when this hand is played out,” she murmured. “But not now.” She snuggled back against him, pulling the covers firmly about them both.

Brandon tried to control his disappointment. Whether Verena realized it or not, they were through with deceptions. Her head rested against his shoulder, her legs entwined with his, Verena's breathing slowed. Her breath stirred the hairs on his chest and he found himself relaxing, snuggling deeper into the softness of the mattress.

He would discover why she wanted Humford's list in the morning—that, and every other secret she harbored. Even if he had to kiss each and every undisclosed thought from her lush lips.

Ah, it was a painful job, but he was willing to apply himself to it. Smiling to himself, Brandon smoothed her hair from her temples until he, too, drifted off to sleep.

V
erena awoke the next morning to the feel of a man's muscular leg thrown over hers. She was held, imprisoned against her own feather mattress: warm, naked, and completely sated. It was, she decided with a sleepy smile, a very good day to be a Lansdowne.

It was heavenly. She kept her eyes closed against the light streaming through the cracks in the curtains and savored the feel of being held, of being cherished and cuddled.

At her side, Brandon's steady breathing sifted through the air, the faint scent of his cologne tickling her nose. It was an arousing sensation, awakening with such a large, muscular man naked in her bed, his warm skin—she opened her eyes and frowned. His
very
warm skin.

Verena lifted herself up on an elbow and looked at his sleeping face. His black hair was tousled, his
cheeks covered with stubble, his skin flushed. She placed her hand on his brow, heat seeping through to the tips of her fingers.

Heavens, the poor man had a fever. It must have come from the drenching he took last night. He had been soaked to the skin.

She traced her fingers through his hair, marveling at the length of his lashes. How long had he waited outside in that atrocious weather? She rather liked feeling as if she were worth standing in the rain for. Had it been anyone other than Brandon St. John, she would have thought the gesture romantic.

But from him, it was merely a sign of stubbornness. The man hated to lose; that one trait colored his every action.

She moved her fingers across his forehead, smoothing back his hair. There was something endearing about the fact that he had a touch of the ague. It made him seem less St. John, and more Brandon.

He stirred, turning toward her as he opened his eyes. His gaze focused and a slow smile tickled the corner of his mouth.

Verena smoothed back his hair. “You have a fever.”

“For you.”
Only he didn't really say the words. He mouthed them, no sound coming from his dry throat.

He frowned, rubbing his throat.

Verena blinked. Good heavens, had he lost his voice?

He opened his mouth again, this time his lips forming a much longer sentence. But no matter
how many words he attempted, nothing came forth but raspy one-syllable croaks.

Verena couldn't help it—she giggled.

Brandon clamped his mouth closed and placed a hand to his throat.

“Don't try to speak, you'll strain your throat even more.”

Brandon slanted a cutting glance her way.

Perhaps it was the fact that he looked adorable sitting in the middle of her pink bed surrounded with mounds of lace pillows, his broad bare chest uncovered, his face a thundercloud. Or perhaps it was just the fact that for the first time since forever, Verena didn't feel alone. Or perhaps it was simply the liberating effects of deep, satisfying, soul-quaking sex.

Verena wasn't sure. But whatever it was, she suddenly felt invincible. Free. As strong as a mountain. She launched herself on him, pushing him back to the mattress and straddling him boldly. She chuckled at his amazed expression as she leaned over him, letting her hair trail across his muscled arms. “You know what this means, don't you?”

He shook his head, a wary expression in his eyes.

She ran the tip of her finger over his mouth and to his chin. “If you can't speak, then you can't ask me any questions.”

She'd expected a reaction. A frown, perhaps. Or maybe a thin-lipped snarl. After all, he was Brandon St. John the mighty and no one dared defy him.

But since he was a St. John, she should have re
alized that his reaction would be a bit stronger than the average man's. His hands clamped over her wrists and he swung her down onto the mattress, moving so quickly that Verena was lying amid her pillows, her hair over her face, before she even knew what had happened.

She felt the bed give as he stood. She shoved back her hair. “What was that for?”

Brand held his two fists end to end and acted as if he were breaking a stick in half, then stabbed a finger in her direction.

“Wha—oh! I see. But you're wrong; I did not break my word. I told you that in the morning I would answer any question you
asked
. It's morning and…” She cupped a hand to her ear “…I don't hear you
asking
anything.”

He glowered, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

“It may not be fair, but that's not my fault. You are plenty old enough to know the dangers of getting wet and cold.”

Brandon gave her one last warning glare, then turned toward the nightstand. The morning sun filtered across him, limning his hips and thighs with delicious golden bands of light. Verena's breath caught. She especially liked the little dips and hollows on his spectacularly muscled ass.

God, but he was magnificent. And for the moment, all hers.

She rolled to her side, resting her head on her hand as she watched him walk to the stand and pour water from the pitcher into one of the glasses. He took a careful drink, grimacing as he did so.

“Perhaps I should ring for some tea—”

“No.” Raspy and uncertain, his voice creaked out. He took another sip of the water. She watched him, somehow jealous of the glass he held in his large, warm hand.

Soon he would be dressed and on his way. She forced her smile to remain in place. Of course he would leave. And that was a good thing. It was, in fact, exactly what she wanted.

She had her freedom, a fairly steady income—or at least enough money that she didn't want for anything, and she had her family. What else could she want?

To have Brandon St. John in my bed every night for the rest of my life
. Good heavens, where had that thought come from? She eyed his taut stomach for a long moment and found that her fingers itched, but not for cards. She wanted to touch him once more.

If she were honest, she'd admit that it would be lovely to have him in her bed—now and forever. What bothered her was the thought of having him in her life. He wasn't just a St. John, he was
the
St. John. The most arrogant, controlling, forceful one of the lot.

Verena tried to picture Brandon visiting a gaming hell, lounging in the small sitting room with the
Morning Post
, sitting at the table in the dining room while Herberts dished out the soup—but no picture would form. None at all.

And that, she decided reluctantly, was because she knew it could never happen. Brandon St. John came from a different place than she did—he had been raised to accept position and power, just as she'd been raised to pretend. To pretend who she
was, what she wanted…her whole life was based on fraud, on pretending and not being.

She was better off alone. Away from both her family and anyone else who might judge or otherwise attempt to manipulate her. Thus she could continue to live her life
her
way.

Which could possibly mean spending a little more time in bed with the man before her. Surely she could allow him a few moments of rest. After all, Brandon was ill and she did have a large enough bed to accommodate both her and—

Stop it, Verena
, she told herself sternly. Calm. Reasonable. Detached. That's how she needed to remain, no matter how handsome Brandon's face, or how taut his perfectly formed rump.

Lust was one thing. She'd give herself permission to feel every level of lust there was. But any stronger emotion, and
she
'd be the one at a disadvantage.

Brandon set down the water glass and placed his hands on the corners of the stand. He leaned forward, his head bowed.

“Should I…do you need anything?”

He shook his head.

He looked so bleak, as if he regretted everything. Her heart quavered at the thought. Was he regretting last night? Was he wishing he'd never returned to Westforth house, that he'd never—

He rubbed irritably at his throat, glowering.

“It's just a putrid throat. I'm sure you'll feel better by tomorrow.”

“I doubt it.” His voice faded on the last word, but she knew what he'd said all the same.

“I hate to say that I told you so, but…” Grin
ning, she climbed to her knees and placed her fist on her hips and said in as deep a voice as she could utter, “‘I am Brandon St. John and I never take cold. I never get ill. I never—'”

In two strides he was back at her side, grabbing her arms and hauling her out of bed. He allowed her feet to rest firmly on the floor, but held her against him, skin to skin, her breasts pressed against his chest, his hands holding her bottom intimately. He glinted down at her, a warning in his gaze.

“I was only teasing.”

He didn't look pleased. But he also didn't look quite so annoyed.

Well. She supposed she should remember that not everyone was brought up in a household where wit and amusement were carried as far as they could go. And he
was
ill, which probably accounted for a great deal of his ill humor. “I am sorry that you feel poorly.”

He arched a brow, but didn't answer.

“You can let me go now.”

His gaze narrowed on her face, then dropped to her shoulders and beyond. He shook his head.

Her gaze narrowed. “Let me go,
now
.”

Again he shook his head, only this time he snaked an arm about her waist and lifted her fully into his arms. To Verena's chagrin, he then nuzzled her neck, his hot breath sending shivers of delight through her.

Her body responded immediately, her breasts tightening, her breath catching in her throat. “You—you should stop that.”

He nipped at her ear and she looped her arms
about his neck. “Really,” she murmured, though she moved her head back to give him better access, “it's time you went home. Surely Chase or one of your brothers will be worried about you and—”

He stopped her with a hard kiss that sent her senses reeling. Verena forgot everything but the feel of his mouth over hers.

She kissed him back just as fervently as before, gasping when he broke the contact.

She struggled to regain her breath. Brandon's hair was mussed, a faint shadow dusted his jaw, and his left cheek showed a crease left by one of her pillows. There was no way he should have been attractive. But he was—devastatingly so. Damn it, why did men look better when they looked worse? It simply was not fair.

Brandon carefully set her back on her feet and tried to clear his throat, then winced. “Damn.” The word swung in the silence like a creaky tavern sign.

“I'll call Herberts for some hot tea. That should help.”

She reached down and picked up Brandon's breeches and tossed them to him. He caught them with one hand, but instead of tugging them on, he dropped them across the back of a chair.

Verena watched carefully, trying not to appear too interested in the perfect curl of hair that spread across his chest, then trickled to a thin line that went all the way to his—she shut her eyes a moment before taking a deep breath.

“Verena.”

She opened her eyes and met his gaze.

“The list. Did you look for it here?”

Oh. They were back to that. Her chest almost ached with her disappointment. “James and I combed the entire house. Several times, in fact.”

He placed his hand beneath her chin and turned her face to his. One of his brows lifted.

“We searched everywhere.”

Disappointment clouded his eyes. He nodded once and released her chin.

Verena felt strangely bereft. There was nothing wrong with being alone, she told herself. She was used to it. In fact, she usually enjoyed being alone. It could be quite pleasant at times. But for some reason, the thought made her throat tighten painfully.

Blast it, what was wrong with her this morning? She was a bundle of exposed nerves.

“I'm going to get dressed,” she announced. Mainly because the silence and her wayward thoughts were beginning to tick far too loudly in her head.

She tried to walk with dignity to her dressing room. It was difficult considering she was naked and was growing more and more conscious of it by the moment.

It was one thing to be naked when romping in bed, and something entirely different when morning light streamed through the curtains and made the entire room seem painfully bright and exposed somehow.

Verena was only two steps away from the wardrobe when Brandon's arms closed about her. He scooped her up, took four strides, and set her back into bed.

“Oh!”
She scrambled to her knees. “What was
that
for?”

He crossed his arms over his chest and stood smiling down at her, daring her without words to attempt to get off the bed.

Her own lips quivered in answer and suddenly, it seemed the most normal thing in the world to be naked in front of Brandon. “You can't keep me here forever.”

“I can try,” he said, only the first word audible. “Besides, you owe me some answers.” He really needed some tea, she decided. She'd order some as soon as she figured out a way to get to the door.

Verena scooted toward the edge of the bed. He took a menacing step forward, his brows raised, a smile on his lips.

She chuckled. He grinned and took another step, then halted, glancing down at where his boots rested in front of him. The second his gaze left her, Verena lunged for the other side of the bed.

He beat her to it, blocking her way easily.

Verena flopped onto her bottom and yanked a sheet over her. “This is not fair! I have things to do today.”

He nodded, a faint smile touching his mouth, his blue eyes agleam. “So do I. But this is far more important.”

Verena bit her lip. He was so appealing, but she really needed to get up. Get out of the room. Anything to break the spell he seemed to have cast on her. “If you don't let me out of bed, I will scream. Herberts will come. And Peters with him.” If anyone could stop Brand, it would be the hulking footman.