To Seduce a Scoundrel (25 page)

While the men swarmed him, he became separated from Miss Mathison. A quick survey of the room found her still standing near the doorway wearing a bemused expression. Where he was overcome with unwanted attention, she was perfectly alone. Ignored. Apparently she wasn’t used to being ignored by men.

But then Lady Saxton approached her and guided her from the room. She’d served her purpose. Hope surged in his chest. Did that mean they could leave? Ambrose searched for Saxton. He was back at the windows.

Ambrose murmured a few words of excuse and left his circle of admirers. He pinned Saxton with a harassed glare, which incited Saxton to meet him in the corner.

“Yes?” Saxton drawled.

“Get me out of here. Your wife saved Miss Mathison, now it’s your turn to save me.”

“Go out the door here.” He flicked a glance to the left at the door to the terrace. “If you want, you can go for a ride.”

Ambrose glowered at him. The bastard knew he didn’t ride. Anymore.

He turned and left, crossing the terrace and striding down the stone stairs to the garden as if Satan were behind him. Hell, he supposed Satan was always behind him given the things he’d done.

He walked with no intention of going to the stables. However, he could practically feel spectators watching his every move. A quick look over his shoulder confirmed his suspicion.

The stables then. At least there he’d be away from over-curious eyes.

He strode into the cool darkness of the stable and nodded at a groom as he passed. If only he could hide out here until tomorrow. Until after everyone returned to London. Until after Philippa returned to London. He really preferred not to see her. How many more times would he be able to keep his hands to himself?

Despite his injuries from the fight, the presence of her next to his bed the other night had been nearly enough to send him over the edge. That dangerous precipice where denial met indulgence. Where lust overrode regret and self-recrimination. A place he didn’t dare go.

His selfish impulses had ruined one woman and killed his brother—he wouldn’t let them destroy Philippa as well.

He neared the end of the long aisle between the stalls. This part of the building was blessedly devoid of cattle. To the left was an open door to a tack room. Perhaps he could spend the night on a saddle blanket in there. So blissfully removed. Quiet. Perfect.

He walked to the door and stopped cold. Standing against the far wall was Philippa. Not standing precisely, more like teetering on a rickety stool.

Ambrose crossed the small room in four quick strides. “What the devil are you doing up there?” He grabbed her by the waist and swung her to the floor.

“Oh!” She gasped. Her eyes widened as their gazes met. “I was, ah, trying to reach that bridle on the hook up there. The grooms are all busy, and I thought…” Her voice trailed away to nothing.

He’d get her bloody bridle. Or at least he meant to. Really, he did. He wanted to let go of her waist, to stop looking into those riveting ale-colored eyes, to cease thinking of the way her lilac-honey scent tantalized him beyond reason.

But he did none of those things.

He was at the edge, staring out over the void where there was no reason. No discipline. No regard for anything but his most primal needs. The place where fighting took him. And since fighting was currently out of the question, he seized the next thing he could: Philippa. He tightened his grip on her waist.

She stood on her toes and touched her fingers to his bruised cheek. “Does it still hurt?”

The stroke of her hand and the concern in her eyes undid him completely.

“Philippa,” he murmured, turning his face so that her palm rested against his flesh. “You should go.”

She laid her other palm against his other cheek and looked into his eyes. “I really should.” But she didn’t, and it was all the invitation his starving body needed.

He kissed her.

Her lips were soft, a balm moving gently over his bruised mouth. One brush. Two. A third time and her mouth lingered against his, her breath teasing its way into his mouth.

He tightened his grip on her waist, his body raging with barely checked desire.

Then she lowered herself and dropped her hands to her sides. He didn’t let her go, and she didn’t break free. Her brow furrowed. “I’d almost forgotten how nice it is to kiss you. Allred kissed me yesterday, and I’m afraid—”

No, no, no
. He didn’t want to know that. Couldn’t think of another man touching the woman he so badly craved. With a groan, he pulled her against him and took her mouth with open lips.

Her hands came up again, wrapping possessively, savagely around his neck. She pulled him tight against her as she rose up and pressed her chest to his. She was perfection and agony rolled into one irresistible woman. His body scorched with a need he’d denied for five long years. No, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced a need like this. There was no comparing her to Lettice, a woman he’d desired and taken. Philippa was life’s most fundamental requirement—like air or water. His soul ached to possess her.

Her kiss was innocent and ravenous, sweet and hot. Her tongue danced with his, and she tilted her head to probe deeper, taste more. He held her closer and answered her questing mouth, losing himself in rapture.

She pressed her hips up against his until he could fairly feel the heat of her through all their layers of clothing. Too damned much clothing. He cupped her bottom through all those frustrating layers and brought his other hand around to her breast, sliding his palm over the lush curve.

He tasted her response as she seemed to melt against his mouth. She pushed into his hand and it was all he needed. Lightly, he swept his thumb over her nipple. It instantly peaked beneath her bodice.

Still too many damned clothes.

He unbuttoned her riding jacket with feverish, fumbling hands. She pushed his coat from his shoulders and tangled her fingers in his cravat, tugging at the linen clumsily, desperately.

Her shirt had buttons at the collar and he pulled at them madly. One popped free and bounced against the wooden floor. He broke their kiss to look down at the creamy flesh he’d exposed. Her chest rose and fell deeply with her breathing. He cradled both breasts, one step closer to her lustrous skin without that damned coat covering her. But the shirt was still an impediment. He pulled the neckline down, but it wasn’t enough to expose her. Heedless of any consequence, he tugged the linen until it split past her breasts.

She gasped, and he swallowed the sound with a kiss. She pulled the ends of his cravat free and used them to urge him closer. His hands remained between them, kneading her soft breasts. She moaned into his mouth.

He needed more.

He worked to unlace the top of her stays enough so that her breasts came free and rose above the lace edge. He pulled away from her mouth reluctantly, but he desperately needed to see and taste her.

She tipped her head back, baring the pale column of her throat, leading him down a path to her glorious breasts, the tips dark pink and pebbled with her arousal.

Though hunger drove him to devour her, he cautioned himself to be gentle. She deserved to be worshipped. Adored. He ran his thumbs over both nipples. A soft moan whispered past her kiss-dampened lips. His mouth went dry as he lowered his head and stroked his tongue across her hot, supple flesh.

He lightly tugged on one nipple as he closed his lips over the other and suckled. Her legs quivered and she sagged. He moved a hand to support her back as he licked and sucked her. His cock raged, reminding him how long he’d been without a woman. How long he’d been without
this
woman—forever.

“Philippa?” The word came from the corridor.

Fuck
.

“Philippa?”

Christ, the door was still open. Ambrose tore himself away from her and clasped her shoulders. “Someone’s coming,” he whispered.

“Philippa?” came the questing voice again.

Her eyes grew wide. “Allred. He must’ve learned I was in the stables.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck
.

He rushed to pull the door closed, not that it would help. Allred was looking for her, and she was right here.

She fumbled with her stays as she pushed her breasts back beneath them. With shaking fingers, she pulled the strings and tried to tie them. He brushed her hands aside and accomplished the task, but the footsteps sounded outside the door.

He took one look at her flushed cheeks, her pinkened, swollen lips, her heavy-lidded eyes and knew there would be no avoiding scandal this time. The pathetic irony of being caught
in flagrante dilecto
a second time was not lost on him. Indeed, it crushed what remained of his soul.

There was a knock on the door followed by the creak of old hinges.

Ambrose closed his eyes and didn’t even bother to repair his clothing.

“Philippa?” The sound came from the doorway. “Good God, Sevrin, what are you doing with my fiancée?”

Fiancée?
Son of a bitch
. He’d done it again. He’d seduced another man’s fiancée and hadn’t even possessed the grace to avoid getting caught.

Philippa shoved her arms into her coat sleeves and drew the garment tight about her in an effort to cover her ruined blouse. Slowly, warily, she raised her gaze to Allred’s outraged countenance. She blinked and willed strength into her suddenly water-filled legs.

Of all the brainless, reckless, scandalous things to do! But the moment she’d turned and seen Ambrose she’d been lost. Her betrothal to Allred, which had already felt wrong, had become impossible. She couldn’t marry one man while she wanted another. And Allred didn’t deserve to be treated the way her father had treated her mother.

Summoning a courage she didn’t feel, she squared her shoulders and faced Allred. “I’m so sorry. I’d planned to tell you we won’t suit after all. Before the betrothal was announced. You deserve better than this.” How trite and inadequate that sounded.

“Damned right I do.” Allred’s hazel eyes turned frigid. “I thought you were an impeccable young woman. How appalling to discover you’re nothing but a harlot.”

Ambrose’s gaze darkened. “There’s no call to insult her.”

Allred sneered. “
I’ve
insulted her? You’re the one alone in this tack room with her, looking like…
that
.”

Philippa cringed.

The flesh around Ambrose’s mouth had gone pale. “Allred, I understand your anger. You’ve every right to it. But think of Philippa. She hasn’t publicly embarrassed you. No one needs to know.”

“You’re quite right. There’s no need for me to make her transgression my problem.” Allred glared at her, his lip curling. He looked so different from the charming gentleman who’d courted her the past fortnight. “Why did you accept my proposal if you wanted this blackguard instead?”

She supposed she owed him an explanation, but finding the right words was difficult. “It seemed appropriate for you and me to wed, but I don’t love you. And I don’t think you love me.”

Allred’s gaze turned condescending. “Love is not intrinsic to marriage.” He threw a harassed look at Ambrose. “I do believe you’ve saved me a regrettable trip to the altar.”

Philippa gaped at him. She’d never imagined he could be so cold, but then she’d never imagined she would do what she’d just done with Ambrose. She had no right to judge Allred or his reaction.

Ambrose moved closer to Allred, his eyes narrowing. “She’s apologized, and since your betrothal was not formally announced, you can simply walk away.”

Allred’s hands balled into fists and for a tense moment, Philippa wondered what he might do. But then Allred relaxed, perhaps recalling Ambrose’s status as a premier fighter. Allred turned to Philippa. “I’ll be courteous despite your
debauchery
.” The word came out like a knife—sharp and meant to inflict pain. “If anyone asks, I’ll deny I ever proposed.”

Though she was horrified by his hurtful words, his accordance to keep the incident secret was more than she deserved. “Thank you.”

Footsteps sounded against the wood floor outside the door. “Allred, where’d you go? Ah, there you are.” Finchley appeared behind him. “What, ho? Who’ve you found here?” His eyes grew wide as he surveyed the interior of the tack room. He slapped his hand against his thigh. “I was right!” he crowed loud enough for all of Benfield to hear.

Philippa wanted nothing more than to dissolve into a puddle and seep through the cracks in the floor. She turned her back to the doorway. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ambrose’s fists clench and the muscles of his arms flex.

“Finchley, get the hell out of here.” Ambrose’s tone was low, menacing.

Philippa looked over her shoulder so she could watch what happened next. She was afraid Ambrose might go after Finchley.

Finchley jabbed Allred in the shoulder. “I knew she was Sevrin’s mystery woman. After I saw the masked woman last night at the prizefight and learned Lady Philippa had been ‘ill,’ I concluded it was she. Right size, right shape.” His gaze lingered on her backside. Philippa felt nauseous.

Allred’s jaw dropped. “Philippa, was that you at the prizefight?”

She turned slightly. “I—”

“And at Lockwood House?”

There were reasonable explanations for both of those things, but what of today? Shame clogged her throat.

“Leave it,” Ambrose growled.

Finchley stepped around Allred. “I think she owes him the truth. Why the little slut was trying to entrap him—”

Ambrose punched Finchley square in the jaw and again in the eye. Finchley fell back against the doorjamb with a howl.

Philippa slapped her hand over her gaping mouth.

“Ow, my eye!” He pressed his palm to his eye and then grimaced. He turned to Allred. “Am I bleeding?”

“Not yet,” Ambrose said. He hadn’t moved back, and his fists were still raised. His waistcoat pulled tight across his upper back. His face was flushed, and his eyes glittered darkly.

Philippa shivered.

Finchley stared up at Ambrose another moment, spun on his heel, and practically ran from the tack room.

Ambrose dropped his fists, but his frame remained tense, his expression grim.