Seduced by the Scoundrel (13 page)

‘Yes,’ she threw back at him. ‘Yes, I want to be your lover. Yes, I want to give my virginity to you. There—does that make you feel better? Because it makes me feel wretched.’ And that time her sob was one of grief as well as anger.

‘Averil.’ The lust drained from him as rapidly as it had come, leaving him empty. ‘Averil,’ and he lifted his hand to touch her cheek. He could not take her virginity, he knew that. If she had a faint chance of making this marriage happen, then he had to leave it to her. Somehow he had let himself care that much.

The tendrils of hair that curled around her ears brushed his fingers as she made a little sound that might have been a shocked gasp, that might have been
Yes,
and feeling came back in a rush. A reluctant tenderness and desire and the realisation that she was his for the asking, here, now.

‘You will go to London and you will be brave and honest and if Bradon does not take you with open arms, then the man is a fool,’ he said. He could not entrap her
in the coils of her innocent passion, but he could plan for the inevitable.

‘I would rather not marry a fool,’ she said, a shaky laugh in her voice. ‘I hope he is a good, compassionate man who will forgive all this and makes a kind husband. I hope he makes me feel like this when he touches me.’ Luc pulled her into his arms and bent his head. ‘No,’ she whispered.

‘Let me make love to you, Averil. This once. I swear you will go to him as much a virgin as you are now.’ And then, when Bradon showed her the door, she would know who to turn to—her desire and her passion would bring her to him.

She tipped up her head, her expression in the silver light eager, all the anger gone. ‘You can do that?’

‘I can give you pleasure and not harm you if you will trust me.’ It was not harm, he told his conscience. The choices were all with the other man.

‘Here? But—’

‘Here.’ He guided her into the arbour that faced away from the house towards the shelter of the slope. ‘Here, now.’

She trusted him. Why, she did not know, for this was her virtue she was risking, not her life, which she knew he would protect at the cost of his. Luc had asked her to be his mistress, he had kissed her until she was dizzy with desire, he was the last man she should yield herself to. And yet she had no will to deny him. Or was it herself that would not be denied?

He pulled her down with him on to the broad-planked seat and kissed her, slowly, druggingly, until analysis was impossible and all that was left was the
heat and strength of him and the caress of his mouth and the drift of his hands.

The neckline of the simple gown was no barrier to long fingers sliding under the lace trim to catch and tease her nipples. He rolled them between finger and thumb until she squirmed against him, panting with shocked pleasure. It was as though the wicked play of his fingers pulled on hot wires that led straight to the pulse that beat with urgent insistence between her legs. Averil moaned against his mouth and he stroked his tongue into hers as though to soothe, yet the caress was like pouring oil on to the flames of desire.

‘Please,’ she gasped against his lips. ‘Please …’

She did not know what she was asking for, what to expect. The night air on her legs as Luc’s hand lifted the full silken skirts made her stiffen, but his mouth and his other hand on her breast held her in thrall. Her hands were clasping his head, her fingers laced into the dark hair, his skull hard and shapely under her palms.

‘Relax,’ he said and she almost laughed because she was quivering with tension like an over-tightened violin string and surely she must snap. Luc had her sprawled in utter abandon across his thighs. The hand on her breast held her to him, the other smoothed back the rustling silken skirts until her legs and the paleness of her belly were exposed. In the semi-darkness the dark triangle at the top of her thighs showed stark against the white skin.

‘Luc,’ she whispered. It was shameful and shameless, but he was looking at her with utter concentration, his palm smoothing down over the quivering skin, and under her she felt the heat and thrust of his erection. He found her desirable, and that was infinitely exciting.

But he had promised he would not take her virginity, so what happened now? Surely he would not leave her in this state—aching and needing and so taut that she was trembling?

His big, calloused hand cupped her mound under its sheltering curls as his mouth caught her whimper of protest. One finger slid between the hot, wet folds and began to rub in time to the thrust of his tongue and Averil arched into his palm, pressing against it, instinctively trying to intensify the pleasure.

He had found that tiny knot of sensation where the strange, aching pulse quivered into life every time he touched her and he teased it until he found the rhythm that had her sobbing into his mouth. ‘More,’ she said, her tongue tangling the word into a groan. ‘Oh, more, Luc. More.’

Somehow he must have understood. He lifted his mouth from hers and she saw the glint of moonlight on his teeth as he smiled. ‘More like this?’ he asked and slid a finger deep into her.

She clenched around him, tight, desperate, as the tension swept through her, an irresistible wave, and she lost all hold on reality and screamed as his kiss swallowed the betraying sound.

‘W
e had better go in.’

In where?
Averil wondered, as she drifted back to reality. Or perhaps it was a dream. She was warm and safe and Luc was holding her and little ripples of pleasure kept running through her body. If they went in, wherever that was, the pleasure would stop.

‘No,’ she mumbled against his shirt front and heard the laugh rumble in his chest.

‘Yes. Come on. Can you stand up?’

‘No.’ But he stood up anyway and she found her feet were on the ground, even though she had to hold tight to Luc’s lapels. Her legs had no more substance than a rag doll’s, her pulse was beating wildly and she wanted to do it all over again. Everything, and in a bed this time. But, of course, she could not. This had been once, and never again.

Averil stumbled as Luc helped her outside, his hand under her elbow. ‘That was good?’ he asked. Somehow
she could not resent the thread of amusement in his voice.

‘Amazing,’ she said honestly. ‘What was it?’

‘An orgasm,’ he explained, still managing to stay serious, although she guessed her ignorance was a novelty for him.

‘Don’t you need one, too?’ Thank goodness it was dark so her crimson cheeks were not visible.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Luc said. ‘It will be all right.’

‘Oh.’ Presumably that meant he would seek out whatever women in Hugh Town made their living seeing to the needs of the gentlemen of the island. At least they would not ask him foolishly naïve questions.

‘You are naturally very passionate,’ Luc said, his voice low. They were walking up and down a path parallel to the house; some sense of reality was returning to her. She could make out the shape of Miss Gordon strolling on the terrace, out of earshot: their tactful, ineffectual, chaperone. Was that deliberate on her part?

‘You don’t really want me to be your mistress,’ Averil murmured back. ‘I am ignorant and inexperienced.’

‘And sensual and natural and very lovely. Of course I want you.’ He began to make his way back to the house. Averil dragged her feet—what if the others knew what they had been doing? He seemed to guess at her reluctance. ‘Don’t worry, it will not be branded on your forehead
I had an orgasm in the summerhouse.’

‘Don’t say such things!’ she whispered, agitated.

‘Pretend to be angry with me,’ Luc said. ‘That will convince Lady Olivia that we have been discussing the question of marriage and are set against each other
and it will explain any colour in your cheeks. If you are determined to go through with this madness, then go to Bradon. I will give you an address. If you need me
—when
you do—send me word.’

‘You really expect me to turn up on your doorstep asking to become your mistress, don’t you?’ she said, reaction turning into something very like anger in reality.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I look forward to it.’

Averil whirled out of his light grip and half ran down the path to Miss Gordon. ‘It is quite impossible, ma’am, we should never suit, even if it was right that I should break my contract with Lord Bradon. I beg you, please help me to make my way to London.’

‘Of course.’ The other woman looked past Averil to where Luc stood on the path. ‘My brother will advance the money for a chaise from Penzance and your lodgings on the way. You had better take Waters with you as your maid. We will give you instructions to my brother’s agent in the port—he will find you respectable lodgings and then hire a chaise and reliable postilions. You must spend at least two nights on the road, I fear, for it is over three hundred miles. Do you think you can manage by yourself?’

‘Thank you,’ Averil said with real gratitude. The thought of dealing with the practicalities of travel sounded blissfully straightforward after the emotional turmoil of the past week. ‘I am used to long journeys in India and a chaise with postilions sounds much easier to deal with than ox carts and elephants!’

Miss Gordon laughed and urged her inside and towards the stairs. There were footsteps on the terrace behind her, but Averil did not turn around.

* * * 

‘Good morning, miss.’ The curtains swished back with a rattle of rings.

‘Good morning, Waters. Hot chocolate? How delightful.’ To wake in a soft bed with light streaming through a wide, clean window: luxury. Lonely luxury. Averil curled her fingers around the cup and inhaled with a shiver of delight as the aroma banished the lingering memory of Pott’s evil tea.

‘Miss Gordon says, will you come down for breakfast, miss, or would you like to take it in bed?’

‘I will come down, thank you.’ She slid out of bed, still cradling the chocolate cup, and went to the wash stand. ‘Miss Gordon said you might be willing to come with me to London, Waters.’

‘Yes, please, miss. I’m a London girl myself, you see, and I came down here because my young man got a job as a footman, but we fell out and I miss my mam and the young ones something awful. And I miss London, too.’

Averil dipped the toothbrush in the pot of powder. ‘I can’t promise there will be a permanent position for you—that depends on what Lord Bradon, my betrothed, says.’

‘That’s all right, miss. I can always stay with Mam in Aldgate until I get a new post. Miss Gordon’s given me a good character.’

Averil paused at the landing window and looked out over a view of rooftops, then sea and scattered islands with white sand beaches glittering in the sun. Shifting sands. If the
Bengal Queen’s
anchor had not dragged on the sandy seabed, if she had not hit the rocks before
the crew could get her back under control, Averil would have landed in Penzance, would have waited patiently until Lord Bradon sent an escort for her and would, even now, be preparing for her marriage.

She would not have met Luc, she would never have discovered the delights of physical love in his arms, she would not have had to make difficult choices.
No, I would still be the nice, well-behaved, dutiful young lady I always was.

She smiled absently at the servants who met her at the foot of the stairs and directed her to the breakfast room.
Was I always so dutiful? Because if I was, where did this wanton creature come from who only desires to be in Luc’s arms and in his bed? Would she have stayed buried for ever if he had not summoned her?

Her smile was conscious and bright as she entered the cheerful small room and her stomach lurched—relief or disappointment?—when she saw the only occupant was Miss Gordon applying herself to a pile of toast with a book propped up before her on the cruet.

‘Good morning, Miss Heydon.’ She flipped the volume closed and rang the small bell by her place. ‘We are alone, as you see. My brother and Captain d’Aunay breakfasted over an hour since and my sister-in-law prefers the solitude of her bedchamber before facing the hurly-burly of the day. Did you sleep well?’

‘Thank you, I was most comfortable.’ A footman poured coffee and indicated with a gesture the buffet and its covered dishes.

Miss Gordon nodded to the man and waited until the door closed behind him and Averil returned to her seat with a slice of omelette before speaking again. ‘I gather that my brother spent half the night with the
captain. The prisoners—although we are not supposed to know of them, of course!—are on their way to Plymouth already.’ She took a folded paper from her pocket and handed it to Averil. ‘From Captain d’Aunay.’

‘Thank you.’ Averil eyed the red wax with its impress of a unicorn’s head. His seal ring, she supposed, although she had never seen him wearing it. She laid the letter down unopened and picked up her fork.

‘Please, do not mind me.’ Miss Gordon gave an airy wave of her toast and reopened her book.

Averil put a forkful of egg in her mouth, chewed it for a minute without tasting it, buttered some toast, sipped her coffee. The letter lay there looking as innocent as a snake under a stone.

Impatient with herself, Averil broke the seal and spread the single sheet open.

It goes well, so far,
the letter began without salutation. Luc’s handwriting was smaller than she imagined it would be, clear and somehow the style was different from the educated hands she was used to. He had been taught to write in France, she reminded herself.
Sir George is convinced, having had his own suspicions, and will tidy things up at his end. I will take the brigs to Plymouth this morning.

When you need me, send to me at Albany, off Piccadilly.

God’s speed on your journey.

L.M. d’A.

When
you need me, not
if.
Arrogant man. His certainty that her meeting with Lord Bradon would be a disaster was not encouraging, nor was her complete panic about what she should do if her betrothed rejected
her.
Andrew,
she reminded herself. She must begin to think of him as a real person, not an abstraction.

She folded the letter and pushed it into the pocket in the skirts of her borrowed gown. Miss Gordon looked up, closed her book again and cocked her head on one side like an inquisitive bird, but she asked no questions.

‘I suggest you rest here another night to recover. It will take the best part of the day to sail to Penzance. I have written out some notes on the road journey for you, and my brother has a letter for his Penzance agent and some money. There is a letter for Lord Bradon as well. It contains no details other than to say that we are sorry we did not know of your connection with him and therefore did not know to contact him after the wreck. That leaves the explanations entirely up to you.’ Averil murmured her thanks. ‘I have given Waters some changes of linen for you and a cloak and bonnet.’

‘You are very kind. I will have everything returned as soon as possible, of course. And Lord Bradon will recompense Sir George.’ At least, she sincerely hoped he would. If he showed her the door, he might well forget all about the logistics of her arrival. She must note the amounts so, if the worst happened, Papa could repay her debts.

‘Of course. I quite envy you going to London. I miss it sadly, but perhaps we will meet again there later this year. I hope to visit a friend of mine there. She is staying at the Star Fort at the moment, away from the chaos this household has been in this past week, reacquainting herself with a certain gentleman,’ she added with a wicked twinkle in her eye.

That must have been what Lady Olivia had been so snappy about, Averil guessed. Miss Gordon appeared
to have a
penchant
for assisting lovers. Perhaps she had been disappointed in love herself, or was merely a romantic.

‘I should be very glad to see you there,’ she said, and meant it.

By the sixth day of her journey from the Isles of Scilly Averil would have been glad to see London, with or without a friendly face. She was travelling in considerable comfort, although Sir George’s agent had been so particular and painstaking that it had taken two days before he was satisfied with all the arrangements and she could convince him that she was well rested enough to undertake the journey, by which time it was Saturday and Averil did not feel she should travel on the Sunday.

Her courses had started on the ship between the islands and Penzance, just to add to the awkwardness of travel, and she confided to Waters that she was not sorry to have the excuse of an extra day in the comfort of a good inn.

But the travelling was comfortable enough once they had set out. The postilions were courteous and steady and both the inn in Penzance and the one she had stayed in the night before at Okehampton had been respectable and clean. Waters was proving sensible, competent and reasonably quiet.

All of which provided not the slightest stimulus, challenge or impediment to her thoughts about what was awaiting her and what had happened in that week with Luc. Her meeting with Andrew Bradon loomed ahead and, like a prisoner awaiting execution, she just wanted to get it over with.

Even the green rolling countryside, so utterly different from India, passed like stage scenery against which the phantoms of her imagination acted out one disastrous encounter after another. There was plenty of time for lurid imaginings. On the first day they had been almost twelve hours on the road; today, it seemed, would be eleven hours.

The chaise slowed for a moment, drew over and another vehicle went past, its bright painted body rocking and swaying. ‘Another yellow bounder, and in a hurry,’ Averil remarked to Waters, who was pulling up the window against the cloud of dust the other post-chaise left in its wake. ‘The passenger must be immune to seasickness!’

‘There’ll be a lot of navy men on this road, I’ll be bound,’ Waters remarked.

‘Of course, yes.’ That would explain the impression she had received of navy blue and the flash of gold braid. ‘I shall be glad to stop for the night, I must confess.’ Journeys in India took weeks, ponderous affairs requiring much planning, the assembling of trains of creaking ox carts, the hiring of armed outriders, the organisation of the household to shift from the heat of the plains up to the cool of the hills for the summer and back again for the winter. The Europeans moved like the flocks, herding themselves, not for fresh grass, but for relief from heat and dust and disease.

This rapid travel, the ability of a lady to undertake a journey almost at a whim, was novel and rather alarming. As she thought it the chaise slowed to a trot, and she saw they were entering a town. It swerved, passed through the arch into the inn yard and came to a clattering halt.

‘Here we are, ma’am.’ One of the postilions opened the door. ‘The Talbot at Mere. We were told this was the place for you to stop.’

Averil climbed down, stumbling a little, her legs stiff. ‘It seems very busy.’ As she spoke another carriage clattered into the yard, ostlers ran out with a change of horses and several people walked in from the street. ‘Perhaps I had better check they have accommodation before you unharness the horses in case we must try another inn.’

He touched his forelock and she started to cross the yard. From the door a big man with an apron stretched across his belly bowed to her. The landlord, no doubt. On the far side men lounged, talking, several of them in navy-blue uniforms. She kept walking towards the landlord, ignoring them as a lady should, Waters at her heels.