To Seduce a Scoundrel (33 page)

He pulled away from her and scrambled to his feet, turning his back to her.

Cold air rushed over her exposed flesh. She pulled her bodice together and got to her feet.

“You should go.” He sounded broken again.

No
, she hadn’t come all this way, hadn’t finally breached the outer wall of his defenses to turn back now. “I’d rather finish what we started.”

He kept his back to her. “I won’t ruin you. Not that way.”

She moved to stand behind him. “I’m already ruined, damn you. You might as well do me the courtesy of experiencing what that means!”

He spun around. His dark eyes were wild. He looked a bit mad. “I can’t touch you. I won’t. I won’t
actually
ruin you.”

Scrupulously, she stripped her clothes from her body and let them pool at her feet. She notched up her chin and held her breath at her daring. But she’d nothing to lose. Nothing she wasn’t more than willing to give. “I’m asking you to, Ambrose.”

His eyes glittered dangerously in the afternoon sunlight streaming from the windows behind her back. He swallowed then lifted his hand. He stroked his thumb down her throat. She arched her neck, casting her head back. She nearly moaned at the contact, but held her tongue, lest he retreat again.

His hand moved lower, sliding over her collarbone and stroking her breast. His touch was rough, and he tweaked her nipple. Her legs quivered, and she bit her lip.

He trailed his finger down the center of her belly, over her navel. He brushed horizontally over the top of the curls at the apex of her thighs. Slowly, agonizingly. His hand cupped her mound and pressed against her.

Unable to remain silent a second longer, she moaned and closed her eyes. His finger touched the top of her cleft. Exquisite sensation exploded. His finger didn’t move, just stayed pressed against her.

She opened her eyes and saw that his eyes had slitted, and his mouth was drawn tight. He looked to be almost in agony. He’d been seemingly close to release when she’d first arrived. She reached for his penis and found it hot and hard.

He jumped back. “Go!”

She stared at him a moment, saw the fury in his gaze. With shaking hands, she plucked up her clothes and struggled into them. He had refastened his breeches and moved to stand at the fireplace with his back to her.

She’d pushed him too far. He wanted her, that was certain, but he was keeping himself from her and she was determined to learn why.

When she was decently clothed, she took a deep breath.
Patience and kindness, patience and kindness. Show him he can trust you
. “How was your ride this morning?”

He turned and glanced at her, glowering.

“I still haven’t had a proper tour of Beckwith. Perhaps we could try again tomorrow.”

He didn’t look at her, but ran his hand through his hair until it boyishly poked this way and that. “I’ll consider it.” He turned and left.

She exhaled.
Patience and kindness
.

Ambrose’s opponent’s massive fist caught him in the chin. For the third time, Ambrose’s skull jarred, and his teeth knocked together. He danced back, narrowly evading another strike.

A fight had seemed the perfect solution tonight for his frustrated mind and body, but for some reason he couldn’t focus. He was slow, ineffective, distracted.

For some reason
. he knew bloody well what reason: Philippa.

Though he’d avoided her the rest of the day, she’d been ever present in his mind. Even now when he was supposed to be chasing his agitation away.

He’d come so close to breaking his vow of celibacy. And so close to treating her as badly as he’d treated Lettice. Philippa deserved far more than a tumble or two with him.

His huge opponent—a brute called Weatherly—cornered him at the edge of the roped square and hit him in the ribs and the side. Ambrose moved left, sluggishly, and cursed his lethargy.

Vaguely he heard Oldham yelling at him to go down. He
should
put an end to this mockery of a fight, but goddamn it he hadn’t gotten what he’d come for.

Snarling, he attacked the larger, wider Weatherly. He was bigger even than Hopkins. Ambrose would take him anyway. He drove several hits toward the man’s face and head and chest, but despite his lumbering size, the bastard was fast. He connected with Ambrose’s nose and that was it.

Blood gushed from Ambrose’s nostrils, coating his lips, filling his mouth, dribbling over his chin. Christ, he hoped he hadn’t broken his nose again. He went down on his knees, fury coursing through his defeated body.

Oldham, who’d been designated as his second, rushed into the square. “You all right?”

Ambrose touched his nose gingerly. Not broken, just bloodied. He nodded slightly, but tipped his head back in an effort to staunch the blood. “Towel.”

Oldham rushed away and then returned. The count was up to twenty, Ambrose thought, but between the blood streaming down his face and the failure screaming in his head, he couldn’t be certain.

A towel came down over his face as cheers arose. Weatherly must’ve been pronounced the winner. “Sorry,” Oldham said. “Never been a second before.”

“S’all right,” Ambrose slurred. He spit out a mouthful of blood and dragged the towel over his lips. Then he bunched the fabric up and pressed it to his nose. “Up.”

Oldham helped him stand and led him from the ring. Ackley and Oldham’s son, Ned, awaited them outside the rope. Ambrose hadn’t been overcome with such utter failure since the last time he’d lost a fight, at least four years ago.

“Hell of a show,” Ackley said, his tone tinged with sarcasm.

Ambrose cast him a sidelong glance. “I was showing you what not to do.”

“In that case, superior effort.”

Ambrose considered punching Ackley. However, given his current inaccuracy, inefficacy, and overall inadequacy, he settled for glaring at his protégé. Not that Ackley was paying any attention. He was staring across the room at a stocky fellow with a wide brow and deep-set eyes. He returned Ackley’s interest.

“That yer opponent next week?” Oldham asked.

Ambrose lowered his head enough to get a good look at their opposition. He was shorter, but wider than Ackley, with a decidedly mean countenance.

Ackley nodded. “It is.”

The blood from Ambrose’s nose had slowed to a trickle. He pulled the towel away. “Good, after seeing me tonight, perhaps he’ll assume you’re terrible.”

Oldham snorted. “Is that why ye fought so bad?”

No. He’d fought so poorly because his every thought was consumed with Philippa. Her scent. The sparkle in her eyes. The silken feel of her hand wrapped around his prick. Christ, he was going half-erect for the thirtieth time that day.

As they made their way through the crowded room, located at the back of an inn in Truro, Ambrose overheard part of a conversation:

“Should’ve put me money on the giant.”

“Eh, you always do bet on the weaklings.”

From a woman, “He didn’t appear weak. Shame his skill didn’t back up his looks.” The disappointment dripping from her tone was enough to thoroughly drench him in shame. Both because of his failure and because of his resulting anger. He ought to feel satisfied—hadn’t he quit fighting to avoid people’s admiration?—but no, he was furious. Irrationally livid.

The discontent curdling his veins all day boiled until every hurt he’d received in the fight blistered and burned. He stalked from the rear door of the inn into an alleyway that led around to the street. Ned brushed by him, going ahead to fetch the coach.

By the time they emerged on the street, Ambrose’s nose had stopped bleeding.

Oldham eyed him. “Ye’ll need cleaning up when we get back to Beckwith.”

An almost fifteen-mile trip that would take them two hours or more in the dark. Ambrose was considering staying in town when a gentleman paused beside him.

“Ambrose?” The man swiftly removed his hat. “It’s me, Thatcher.”

Ambrose had recognized him immediately. They’d been friends at university.

“Blimey, it’s been at least five years.” Thatcher smiled broadly. “Grab an ale with me.” And then, as if he’d just noticed Ambrose’s face, his brow furrowed. “What happened to you?”

Yes, give me the ridicule I deserve
. “I was in a fight.”

Thatcher glanced around. “Where’s the villain? I’ll take care of him.”

Ambrose blinked, unsure of what to make of that reaction. He wanted to take up for him?

“Nah,” Oldham interjected. “His lordship fought at the inn.”

“His lordship…right.” Thatcher looked a bit sheepish. “I’d forgotten you’re the viscount.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ambrose said. Their friendship had predated Nigel’s death and thus Ambrose’s inheritance. “Unfortunately we’re returning to Beckwith, so perhaps another time.”

Thatcher nodded, his gaze turning uncomfortable. “I hadn’t even heard you were back. Yes, another time.” He offered his hand. Ambrose took it and with the grasp came a flood of bittersweet memories. Before he’d ruined everything. He reflected on all the things he’d lost—friendship, respect, the joy of shared experiences—and tonight’s defeat scorched him anew.

Thatcher passed on. Ambrose watched him walk away and wondered when it would ever be “another time.”

Where was the goddamned coach?

Oldham stepped close to him, keeping his voice low so Ackley couldn’t hear. “We could stay in town. Ye should get that ale with yer friend.”

Thatcher wasn’t his friend anymore. Hopkins and Saxton were the only people who could call themselves that, and after what had happened at Benfield Ambrose wasn’t even sure about Saxton anymore. “That’s not necessary.”

“No, but it might be nice. I’ve noticed ye don’t allow yerself much enjoyment. Ever since ye’ve been back, ye work, ye train with Ackley. Ye didn’t even ride until today.”

Ambrose scowled at him. “I don’t need nice.”

Oldham’s dark brows drew together. “Ye keep talking about what ye need. What about what ye want? Ye used to be a fun-loving bloke. Before all that mess with yer brother, but don’t you think it’s time—”

“No, I don’t think it’s time, and you’d do best not to mention it to me again.”

The coach rolled up then. Ned jumped down from the box and opened the door. Oldham took the rear-facing seat, while Ambrose and Ackley took the front-facing. Ned returned to the box beside the coachman, and the coach moved forward.

A half hour later, they were out of Truro making their way slowly in the dark. The moon was nearly full, which offered a bit of light in addition to their exterior lanterns. Ackley’s soft snores filled the coach.

Ambrose couldn’t relax enough to sleep. He couldn’t relax enough to even find a comfortable position. He shifted in his seat, futilely trying to at least turn his mind off, if not find slumber.

“Do ye think yer brother would like the miserable bastard ye’ve become?” Oldham asked, his voice furious.

Oldham’s words struck him like a flurry of blows. Ambrose welcomed his anger. “I’m certain he didn’t like the selfish, arrogant prick I was and wouldn’t give a damn what happened to me.”

“I disagree. Yer brother loved ye.”

The tension in Ambrose’s body multiplied until his neck ached and his body thrummed with the need for release. “I told you not to talk about this.”

“Someone’s got to, otherwise ye’ll have yer fight and go back to London.” Oldham’s tone had lost its edge, but he leaned forward intently. “Beckwith needs ye.”

Nobody needed him. Or at least they shouldn’t. “Beckwith has done fine in my absence.”

“Aye, but it could be flourishing. The way ye teach and guide that boy, that’s the way ye used to be. Ye could be that way again. Ye saw that bloke in Truro, he doesn’t blame ye. What’s past is past.”

It couldn’t be that simple. He didn’t get to regain his life a mere five years after stealing Nigel’s. Could his brother’s memory be forgotten in so short a span? Ambrose wouldn’t let it. “I blame me, and that’s all that matters.”

Oldham sat back with a wave of his hand. “Eh, I guess ye’re still selfish. Go on then and wallow in yer self-pity. Ignore the people who need ye. If ye really wanted to honor yer brother’s memory, ye’d stay and make things right again.”

Fury and pain and shame exploded inside him. “I can’t ever make things right!” Ambrose’s chest heaved, his body shook. He grappled for air, for a shred of reason.

For a moment the only sounds in the coach were Ambrose’s rapid breaths. Ackley had ceased snoring.

Ambrose felt a hand clap his knee. “Ye can make things better. Give these people—yer people—a chance.”

Ambrose sat back against the squab, ice filling his veins. Was Oldham right? Was he being selfish by ignoring Beckwith? He’d thought to remove himself, that everyone preferred his absence. But what kind of man left his estate to the care of others and eschewed his responsibility for the sake of penance? A selfish coward.

The realization hit him harder than anything his opponent had delivered tonight. His shaking slowed, but he was still filled with dark apprehension. Not because of his anger or his unsatisfied need for self-punishment, but because he was afraid of finding satisfaction in life again, of forgetting Nigel, of forgiving himself. What would happen to his soul then?

Chapter Twenty