How the Scoundrel Seduces (8 page)

And before she could react, he bent his head to kiss her.

She was stunned. Then appalled. Then horribly, awfully intrigued. Because Mr. Bonnaud didn’t kiss like the two fellows who’d given her dutiful pecks on the lips during the early days of her debut. He kissed like a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

Impossibly, though his lips were soft, his kiss was hard. Bold. All-consuming. It demanded a response, and she gave it willingly.

She told herself it was out of simple curiosity. Mr. Bonnaud had women trailing after him everywhere, and she was dying to know why.

Then his hand slid about her waist to pull her close, and the tenor of the kiss changed, and she forgot all about her curiosity. She forgot her name and where she was and why she was even here. She forgot everything but the feel of his firm body plastered to hers, his muscular arm wrapped about her waist, his hot mouth coaxing hers open so he could slip his tongue inside.

Something wild and wanton uncurled in her belly. So this was how a scoundrel kissed a woman, with long, heated strokes of his tongue. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. And strange,
wonderful
things were happening to her in places a lady didn’t even acknowledge existed. Lord save her.

In a flash, she understood how he’d gained his reputation with women—by doing
this
to them. That
thought brought her to her senses enough to drag her mouth from his. “Mr. Bonnaud, we shouldn’t—”

“No, we shouldn’t, princess,” he agreed, then perversely kissed her again.

Now her pulse beat at a positively giddy pace, and her belly warmed. Or something down there warmed anyway. Which most assuredly shouldn’t happen.

She didn’t care. Because he was giving her such raw, heady kisses that her head spun. She couldn’t catch her breath, but what need had she for breath when he was giving her his? Their breaths mingled, their mouths mingled, everything mingled until she feared her knees might actually buckle.

Unbidden, the fortune-teller’s last remark concerning the “gentleman with eyes like the sky” burst into her memory:
If you let him, he will shatter your heart.

Not if she had anything to say about it.

She shoved him away. “Enough,” she murmured, fighting for breath. And sanity. “That’s quite enough, sir. This demonstration is over.”

4

T
RISTAN COULD ONLY
stare blindly at her, his blood running fast and his heart beating even faster.

Demonstration? What demonstration?

Oh, right. He’d been making a point before it had turned into . . . whatever the hell
that
had just been.

He’d kissed plenty of women and seduced at least half of those he kissed, so he knew what kisses felt like. And they had never once felt like
that
.

A good kiss was pleasurable, a better kiss was erotic, and the best ones were often the prelude to a seduction. They damned well weren’t like being turned inside out and upside down.

They weren’t supposed to be, anyway. They were
supposed
to be under his control. He was always the one leading the kiss, not following it like a hound scenting blood . . . or perfume as sweet as Yorkshire’s violets.

Thank God she looked as flummoxed as he was. Her eyes were fathomless, like the waters off Flamborough Head, and she gulped breath after breath.

He followed the convulsive motion of her throat, wishing he’d thought to plant a kiss in the hollow just there, where the skin was softest and the pulse beat—

“I’m afraid your demonstration proved nothing,” she said.

He had to sift through his addled brain to figure out what he’d been trying to prove. Ah yes. That a woman could desire a man even if she didn’t like him. And that a man could
make
a woman desire him.

“Seems to me I proved a great deal,” he rasped.

Of course he had. And now that he didn’t have her lush body in his arms, with her soft mouth opening beneath his and her delicate moans turning his blood to fire, his good sense was reasserting itself.

He probably just needed sleep or food or . . . a knock in the head. That was why he was being an idiot, imagining he’d felt anything but the usual lust for a pretty woman. That was why he’d been fool enough to touch the sort of woman he usually avoided.

That was why he was standing here letting her pretend to be unaffected by their kisses. “Admit it,” he growled, “despite not liking me, you desired me.”

He headed for her once more, and she backed away.

“It wasn’t desire,” she said. “It was curiosity, nothing more.”

He bore down on her. “Tell me, princess, do you often lie to yourself?”

“Don’t call me princess.”

“Then speak the truth, damn it! And perhaps I’ll stop.”

She came up against a table and halted. So did he,
though a few inches more would put him well within reach of her again. But he didn’t want to be that close. Not when all he wanted to do right now was provide her with another “demonstration,” over and over, until she admitted that she wanted him.

That wouldn’t be wise. If he had any sense at all, he would never attempt such a demonstration again.

But it chafed him that she was
still
denying their attraction, even to herself. Any other chit like her would be enjoying the chance at a private flirtation where she needn’t be careful.

Instead, she looked panicked. “Please, Mr. Bonnaud . . .”

“Tristan,” he ground out, irritated that she behaved as if he might ravish her on the spot. “After what we just did, you can damned well call me by my Christian name in private.”

Hell and thunder, what was wrong with him? He was behaving like an arse, and God only knew why. Still, he refused to take the words back.

She curled her fingers into her skirts as if to keep from reaching for him . . . or, more likely, slapping the tar out of him. He was probably lucky she hadn’t already done so, given her mercurial nature. He was traveling so far beyond the bounds of propriety that he’d soon be in another county.

“Have it your way . . . Tristan,” she said in a frosty tone. “I concede that you may have shed a certain new light on my impression of relations between men and women, but—”

“Don’t pretty it up with fancy words. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, no matter what you’ve been taught. For a few moments, you enjoyed our kisses. Admit it.”

“All right, perhaps I . . . found them intriguing.” She drew herself up stiffly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I want more from marriage than mere physical attraction. I happen to believe in marrying for love. My parents were wildly happy together, and I’m determined to find a match like theirs if I can.”

“
Love? 
” he said with a roll of his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake—”

“What? You think it impossible that I might marry for love?”

“Not you specifically. Anyone. It’s naïve to plan one’s future around an unattainable dream. You’re begging to be disappointed.” Though at least she would have her money to soothe her disappointment. Mother had gained nothing but heartache and loss from
her
unattainable dream of love. It was why he’d put his heart on ice long ago.

“I’d rather find that out for myself, thank you very much.”

He managed a shrug. “If some fantasy of love is what you’re after, then you’d better pray that you
are
the true heir to Winborough. Or be prepared to take your chances on hiding the truth about your past from your cousin.”

She frowned. “It’s possible that I could fall in love with
him.
Unlikely, I should think, but possible. That would certainly solve everything.”

The fact that she could speak so nonchalantly of
another man after practically swooning in his arms irritated him, and then his
irritation
irritated him. The woman was a plague, damn her.

A perverse urge to plague
her
rose up in him. “You know what they say: It’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one.”

Instead of taking the bait, she cast him a smooth smile. “Interesting words, coming from the man who considers love ‘an unattainable dream.’ Forgive me if I don’t take advice on marriage from a bachelor more famous for seducing women than courting them.”

Sliding from between him and the table, she headed for the door. “In any case, since you seem to have a plan for investigating my family’s past, I believe we’re finished here.” Reaching for the door handle, she added, “I’ll expect a report from you as soon as you return from Liverpool.”

“Of course.” Bristling at being so summarily dismissed—and in his own bloody office, too—he snapped, “Shall I come to the Keane town house to present my report? Or send it to you by the mails?”

Ah.
That
got a reaction at last.

Two spots of color appeared high on her cheeks. “That won’t do, and you know it. We’ll have to find some discreet way to communicate.”

“
Discreet
. Your sort’s polite word for hiding the truth.”

She leveled a dark glance on him. “Manton’s Investigations does offer discretion. Your brother insisted that it would be provided.”

Damn. He really was losing his mind, to even hint otherwise to a client. “I will be perfectly discreet.
If
you’ll tell me how to accomplish that feat.”

After a long pause, she said, “I could invite you to the soiree my aunt intends to throw for my cousin when he arrives, but I hope to have this settled long before then. And, well—”

“I’m not exactly acceptable in polite society,” he said silkily. At heart, she was just another fine lady with her nose in the air.

Her gaze flashed to his. “Acceptability has naught to do with it. I’m not supposed to have met you, remember? You weren’t officially at that house party. You were sneaking around pretending to be a thief, and since Aunt Flo
was
at that house party, she’ll know you weren’t there. So she’ll find it highly suspicious if I insist upon inviting a stranger to a soiree. I can get away with inviting Mr. Manton, the Cales, and the duke and duchess—”

“You’ve never met the duke and duchess,” he smugly pointed out.

She rolled her eyes. “He’s a
duke.
My aunt would think it mad
not
to invite any duke with whom I can presume to have some connection by virtue of his relation, Mr. Cale. Besides, Mr. Manton said that the duke is interested in my cousin’s paintings, so I need only claim to have heard that somewhere.”

God, he hated it when she was sensible and logical, making him appear biased and obnoxious. Which he apparently was, at least regarding anything that concerned
her
.

“The soiree is out, then.” He forced himself to behave like an investigator rather than a slavering hound thirsting for another taste of her mouth. “Do you plan to go anywhere else I might be permitted to roam? The theater, Bond Street . . . Vauxhall—”

“Oh! I know what we can do. When I’m in London, I ride on Rotten Row every afternoon during the fashionable hour. You could meet me there. No one will think anything of a gentleman accompanying me for a few circuits.”

“Riding in Hyde Park. Of course. What else would an heiress do for fun?”

“Rotten Row is the perfect hunting ground for ladies seeking husbands. Or didn’t you know?”

Why did he get the feeling she was trying to provoke
him
now? And why, by all that was holy, was it working? “Husband-hunting. Always a rousing sport. I suppose you go there dressed to kill.”

“No, indeed. What good is a dead husband?” She smiled airily. “I go dressed to maim only.”

“Why does that not surprise me, princess?”

Her smile vanished. “I thought you were going to stop calling me that.”

“I said ‘perhaps.’ ” He strolled up to the door, where she stood poised for flight. “But I’ve changed my mind. It suits you.”

She looked suddenly defensive. “You mean, it suits
you
to mock me.”

The uncertainty in her voice gave him a twinge of guilt. “I’m not mocking you, I swear. Truth is, you remind
me of a Russian princess I knew in Paris.” He managed a teasing tone. “She dressed to maim, too.”

She wouldn’t look at him. “One of your many conquests, I take it?”

“Hell and thunder,” he said irritably, “it’s not as if I go about seducing every fetching female I see. And princesses don’t generally consort with men like me anyway.” Although the Russian chit
had
flirted outrageously with him, something he didn’t see any point in mentioning.

Her hands worried the reticule attached to one of her slender wrists. “About that . . . er . . . kiss of ours, you will keep it . . . I mean, if my cousin were to hear of it, let alone Papa—”

“I’m not going to tell anyone, if that’s what worries you.”

Her gaze shot to his. “And you won’t . . . attempt another one.”

“I can’t promise any such thing.” What was wrong with him? Hadn’t he just been telling himself that he shouldn’t repeat it? “However, since we’re unlikely to be alone again, it shouldn’t be a problem.”