The Heart of a Scoundrel (33 page)

A slight smile twitched at the corners of his lips and there was nothing hard or cynical and practiced in this most honest of reaction of his sleep. What did a man like Edmund dream about that brought him to smile? Another shuddery snore escaped those lips and in his sleep, he rolled onto his back. The sheet slid down his frame further revealing the broad wall of his naked chest matted with tight, black curls.

She slid her gaze over to the tray he’d brought in earlier; the food forgotten upon it, and that small leather book there, a conundrum wrapped in leather with gold lettering. What need had there been for him to select a book for her and deliver a tray of breakfast to her? A man so viciously methodical and whispered about by Society for his ruthlessness would not worry over his wife’s hurt feelings. That man Society loathed and feared wouldn’t give a jot if his wife had been hurt by talk of the women who’d come before. Nay, that man would delight in the weakness shown. Phoebe returned her attention to Edmund. But he’d not delighted in her hurt or sought to use it as a weapon with which to further manipulate her. He’d come with an apology. She inched closer and trailed the tips of her fingers over his bare chest.

My heart does not lie…

“Who are you, Edmund?” she whispered. The man who’d have his revenge at all costs? Or the man who knew her interests and in an attempt to right her hurts, would humble himself with an apology.

As though disturbed by her questioning even in his sleep, he shifted. That slight movement further dislodged the sheet and it slid lower. She reached for the soft fabric to pull it back into place and a horrified gasp escaped her. A vicious, white, puckered scar traversed from the corner of his right hip down to the middle of his thigh. She shoved herself up from her reclining position and came to her knees. The angry mark upon his otherwise perfect skin displayed a vicious injury
. I dueled for a lady’s heart
… This was the mark he bore, as a testament to that former love. Agony swept over her at the prospect of this tall, powerful, commanding figure forever silenced. With the pain he’d caused her, she cared for Edmund still. Phoebe reached tentative fingers to that mark when a powerful hand shot out and circled her wrist.

Her heart thundered hard and her gaze flew to Edmund. He eyed her through thick, hooded, black lashes that revealed little of his thoughts. She swallowed hard and mustered a smile. “G-good morning.”

“Afternoon. It is afternoon.”

“Is it?” Her voice emerged on a high squeak.

“And the same day.”

She looked to the window. She’d been Miss Phoebe Barrett, then found herself wedded to Edmund and now titled the Marchioness of Rutland, and had made love to him…and this had all been the same day? How many changes a person could undergo in so very little time. Phoebe pulled her hand back and he quickly released her. Her skin pricked with the heated intensity of his stare.

“Surely you’ll ask the question?” His harsh baritone belied the just previously resting gentleman with a smile in his sleep.

A man who snored like a bear in winter and grinned like a naughty boy while he slumbered did not evoke the same fear a man such as the Marquess of Rutland’s legendary ruthlessness did. Phoebe skimmed her fingers over his scar once more. “Is this from your duel?” For another woman. A woman he’d loved. He stiffened at her touch, but made no attempt to pull away. Otherwise, he remained stoically silent and she suspected he did not intend to answer. Disappointment swelled at the boundaries he’d keep between them, even married as they were. She stared at that angry scar. It should not matter, his silence. There were no illusions of love on his part; not the way she’d foolishly, optimistically hoped during his pretend courtship. She pulled the sheet close and swung her legs over the edge of the bed then made to rise.

“It is.”

Phoebe froze. She glanced over her shoulder to gauge his reaction to that admission. As usual, his inscrutable expression gave no indication to his thoughts. “Who did you duel for the lady’s love?” She could not keep the bitterness from her words and hated it for the weakness it revealed for this man, still with his treachery.

Edmund sat up and the sheet dipped lower. “The Earl of Stanhope.”

The name meant nothing to her. Recently wed to Lady Anne Adamson, there was a scandal surrounding their own marriage, but she’d never bothered with the details of scandals and such. Now, in this, she wished she’d attended more closely.

He settled his hands upon her shoulders and she stiffened. “In the end she chose neither of us.” His hot breath fanned the skin of her neck, stirring the loose curls that hung haphazardly over her shoulder. “It was for naught. It did not earn me the lady’s love.”

It did not earn me the lady’s love
. If the duchess had, in fact, chosen Edmund, what a very different man he’d be than this twisted creature bent on revenge. That somehow made her agony all the more painful. Her belly twisted in a hard knot. Edmund stroked his hands up and down her forearms in a seductively soft, soothing rhythm.

“I was young,” he confessed, touching his lips to her neck.

Was she so very transparent in her thoughts? How unsophisticated she must be to this worldly, jaded man.

She hated that she craved his kiss as she did, hated that she was so attuned to his every caress when she meant so very little to him. “How old were you?”

“Twenty-one.”

The same age as she was now. Old enough to know one’s heart. Her throat worked. She pulled back, but he applied a gentle pressure to her arms, as though willing her to stay because he needed her there, which was madness. “How very much you must love her.”

“I don’t love anyone,” he replied with an icy automaticity that lashed at her weak heart. Of course he couldn’t love anyone—her included. Even knowing the ruthless scoundrel he was, why should that cause this vicious agony in her breast? She looked sadly back at him. “Everyone loves someone. Even if it is only themselves.”

A slight scowl marred his face, a slight indication he’d detected her unintended barb. “I did not love her,” he said setting his jaw at a mutinous angle.

Phoebe pulled away again and this time he made no move to stop her. She stood and tugged at the coverlet, holding it close to her naked frame, shielding herself from his eyes. “You protest any time I mention your loving your Margaret—”

“She is not my Margaret.”

“And yet you’d involve me and Honoria and my father and,” she slashed the air with one hand. “God knows whoever else so you might exact some revenge on the woman.” She tipped her chin up. “Do you still intend to have your revenge on her for a past hurt?” Phoebe held her breath, bracing for his response. He remained silent and with his lack of words, provided all the answer she required. “I would ask that you set aside this vengeful life you’ve set for yourself, Edmund.” Otherwise, it would destroy the remaining part of him that was still good. The part of him that could say sorry and carry silver trays with meals for a wife he’d inadvertently hurt, and a gift of a book that spoke of a man who’d listened to her interests and hopes.

An impatient sound escaped him; part growl, part moan. “You do not understand.”

“Then make me.”

A muscle jumped at the corner of his mouth. A man who evoked fear in the hearts of most in Society was likely unaccustomed to having orders put to him. She released the breath as disappointment filled her. “Simply saying you did not love her does not make it true.” Phoebe readjusted her hold on the coverlet, tightening her grip. That slight muscle continued to tic away at the right corner of his lip. “And you still don’t realize that loving someone doesn’t make you weak.” She dropped her gaze to the rumpled sheets. Or perhaps it did. After all, was she truly any stronger for loving? “Is she why you ceased believing in love?”

Edmund came up to his knees in one fluid motion. Unrepentant in his nakedness, he brushed his knuckles along her jawline. At that slight caress, she started. “I ceased believing in love long before Margaret.” His use of the woman’s Christian name somehow made this aching hole in her chest all the wider. Edmund paused that gentle caress and his mouth tightened. “I learned early on at my parents’ marriage. There is no love. There are simply people who would have their pleasures and take them. Love is an empty, useless emotion.”

“My parents’ marriage is not a happy one,” she reminded him.

“My mother took my father’s brother as her lover,” he said bluntly.

She gasped. For her father’s shamefulness, this level of treachery Edmund spoke of was foreign.

The unholy smile on her husband’s lips mocked her for her innocence and she recognized it as a protective grin he adopted to shield himself from inquiries into his life. “What, nothing to say?” He captured a loose curl between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed the tress almost distractedly. “Will you have me tell you how my father ordered me from the nursery and forced me to the room where my mother and uncle rutted like beasts?”

Nausea churned in her belly.
Oh, God.
He’d once claimed she knew nothing about him. And Lord forgive her, these were the pieces of Edmund Deering she’d not known. Pieces that explained the puzzle of the man he’d become. “Would you hear more?” A hard glint sparked to life in his eyes. “Or shall I not sully your innocent ears any further?”

The taunting barb, no doubt, was intended to silence her and end his telling, and yet…the pleading in his eyes, begged for her to hear these parts he’d shared with no one. “I would hear it all, Edmund.”

His eyebrows shot up, but then he quickly smoothed his features.

“Very well, then you’ll have me tell you how my father forced me to stand and watch them?” Bile climbed up her throat until she feared she’d cast the contents of her stomach at his feet. “Or how they were so enthralled with one another they failed to see me or my father at the doorway? How when my mother and uncle found their release, they finally saw me, and laughed.”

He would have been just a boy. At his deadened tones, she pressed her eyes closed. There was an ugliness in her own soul, for she wanted to drag the now dead marquess and marchioness from their graves and choke them for shattering a boy’s innocence. His fingers tightened upon her shoulders in an almost reflexive manner. “From that point, I became a pawn used by my parents to inflict hurt upon one another. I decided at that moment I would never be used by anyone. I would never be hurt by anyone in any way.” He flexed his jaw. “I am no pawn and I will have vengeance on those who think they might inflict hurt. For if I do not, then my weakness will be used against me.”

Phoebe dropped her gaze to his scar; the angry, vicious reminder of what had happened when he’d trusted that there could be more than ugliness in the world. What a warped, sad way to go through life.

“Don’t do that,” he commanded harshly.

She picked her head up.

Edmund released his hold on her and she mourned the loss of his touch. “Do not pity me.”

“I do not pity you.” She didn’t. Her heart ached for him and she wanted to take away a child’s pain so mayhap he might grow into a man who’d not been scarred by his parents’ depravity.

“And with everything you’ve heard, you still believe in love.”

She bristled at the cynical twist to that statement. “Just because you can’t love me, does not mean there aren’t others who d—” Her words ended on a startled squeak as he swiftly turned her around and brought her down beneath the wall of his chest. Her back burrowed into the downy soft mattress.

Powerful emotion burned from Edmund’s eyes, scorching her with the strength there. “There will not be another,” he commanded, his tone gravelly.

She blinked. “Another what?”

He lowered his brow to hers so the brown of his irises bore into hers. “A lover.”

Her heart started. He was jealous. “You are jealous.” Shock leant her words a breathy quality.

Edmund ceased blinking, but he did not deny the charge.

How could this man, who’d used her for nothing more than a pawn in his twisted, illogical plot against the Duchess of Monteith, care at all about anything? His reaction could be one of a man who’d have, as he said, revenge on those who sought to hurt him. However, something in his eyes spoke of a different tale. Her heart hitched. For even as she hated the ruthless man who wanted her at all costs, who would have destroyed her family if it so suited him, that blasted, weak organ would belong forever to him. She stroked her fingers down his jaw. “I will not take a lover,” she said softly. “Not because you command it,” his jaw flexed once more, “but because I will not become my father or your mother…”
Or you
…

Edmund raked a gaze over her face as though seeking the veracity of her words and then he covered her mouth with his in a hard, possessive kiss. This was not the gentle searching of earlier that morning. This was unrestrained and explosive. He thrust his tongue deep and she moaned at that primitive kiss which set her body ablaze with a hunger for more of him.

Her husband groaned and he found her wet center with his fingers. Then in a move made to, no doubt, torture, he pressed the heel of his hand against her until Phoebe tossed her head back and a sharp cry slipped from her lips. Edmund continued to work her, toying with her nub, even as he lowered his lips to the swollen tip of one breast. He captured the bud and drew the pebbled flesh deep, suckling until all rational thought fled and she became nothing more than a bundle of nerves and sensations. A whimper stuck in her throat and she parted her legs for him; hungry for the promises he’d made with his body earlier that morning. Edmund settled himself between her thighs and then with a gentleness she’d not known him capable of, moved slowly inside her. She braced for a hint of the earlier pain she’d known, but all discomfort faded at the slow, steady drag of him filling her, entering her, and then he plunged deep.

Phoebe cried out and raked her nails down his back; holding him closer, wanting to bind her soul with his so there was no darkness within him and only light. With his mouth clenched in a tense line and sweat dripping from his brow, Edmund continued his steady thrusts. Retreating. Plunging forward. Retreating. Plunging forward. And Phoebe held on tight to him as she climbed that pinnacle and then a garbled cry burst from her throat as he increased his rhythm and then she plunged over the edge of all reason, falling, falling into the bliss of his sure movements. Then with a primitive, triumphant shout, he arched back and flooded her with his seed.