To Seduce a Scoundrel (39 page)

The burning faded, and pleasure reclaimed her. He kissed her lightly and began to move. A slow withdrawal followed by an equally slow penetration.

He kissed a path to her ear and whispered, “Open your thighs wider, that’s right, open to me, love.”

His words only increased her desire, her need. She’d wanted this moment so badly. He plunged deeper on the next thrust—still gentle, but with a bit more force. She gasped and clutched at his back.

“Now wrap your legs around me.”

She looked up at him, not sure what he meant.

He reached down and lifted her left leg then guided it around his hips, opening her even more to him. He pressed forward and, dear Lord, but the sensation was intense. He was so deep, the precision of his entry and withdrawal so perfect. She wrapped her other leg around his hips, and he began to move faster. He tilted his hips forward, grinding against the top of her sex, abrading her most sensitive flesh. She moved with him, urging him to go faster, drive harder.

“More,” she demanded in husky tones.

He quickened the pace, driving in and out of her with ruthless grace. There was no pain, only a building bliss similar to before, but completely different. He filled her and yet she didn’t feel full enough. Tiny whimpers escaped her throat as she sought to find that thread of pleasure that would carry her to the other side.

He thrust harder and then claimed her mouth, conquering her with his tongue as he plundered her with his sex. He moved faster, rising above her, breaking their kiss. He lifted his hand and grabbed the top of the headboard.

“Come with me now, Philippa. Come with me.”

His hips stroked a desperate pace. She began to break away. Sparks danced behind her eyelids and she realized her eyes were shut tight. She wanted to see him.

She opened her eyes and watched the tension in his face. He ground low against her and hovered the barest moment. Then he pulled away from her and rolled to his side. He cried out, a deep, guttural sound.

His abrupt departure reminded her she’d been in the middle of her own release. Her muscles spasmed, and she missed the pressure of him against her and inside of her. She put her fingers against herself and massaged until the shocks subsided.

When her breathing slowed a bit, she turned to her side. He lay on his back with his hand thrown over his eyes.

She watched him a moment then looked down at his shaft. His flesh glistened with moisture.

He’d stopped himself from leaving his seed inside of her. She supposed that was fair, given they’d made no plans for the future, no promises. Still, emptiness invaded her soul and reminded her that though he’d given her his body, she’d received nothing else.

A knock on the door startled them both. He sat up, his eyes flicking to the door and then to her.

“Probably Feeney come to see if she can help me finish getting ready for dinner.”

Ambrose arched a brow. “She’d be that obtuse?”

Philippa’s lips curved up. “No. Who could it be then?”

The knock came again followed by, “Yer lordship? Ye’ve a visitor downstairs,” Oldham called through the door.

Philippa stood on legs made wobbly by blissful satisfaction. “I’ll go into the dressing chamber.”

Ambrose nodded as he climbed off the bed.

She left the door opened a sliver. She wanted to hear whatever Oldham said.

She found a towel in a stack of linens and cleaned herself. The scent of him clung to her body and she smiled at the hint of ownership she felt. He might not be hers forever, but he’d been hers tonight.

After tidying herself, she went back to the door and listened.

“Tell Jagger I’ll be down shortly. And he’s not invited for dinner.”

She frowned. Jagger?

Once she heard the door latching shut, she stepped back into her bedchamber. “Jagger’s here?”

Ambrose had donned his breeches and shirt. He was now plucking up his other clothing. “For the fight.”

“You invited him to stay here?” No, that didn’t make sense. Ambrose had just said Jagger couldn’t stay for dinner.

“No. There’s some sort of problem. I need to get downstairs and see what it is. Take your time.”

The hell she would. She wanted to know what was going on. “Please send Feeney up?”

He nodded, his clothing draped over his forearm.

She padded over to him, marveling at how comfortable she felt exposing herself to him. She stood on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you.” She spoke softly against his ear. “I know that wasn’t easy, but you’ve given me a great gift. I’ll cherish it—and you—always.”

His free hand came swiftly up her neck and cupped the back of her head. He kissed her fiercely, deeply. But it was over much too quickly. Too bad they couldn’t spend the entire evening in bed. There was always after dinner…

He turned and left, and she hurried back into her dressing chamber, anxious to see what Jagger wanted. Her joy ebbed as she realized it probably wasn’t good.

Ambrose didn’t have time to reflect upon the loss of his celibacy. He cleaned up and dressed quickly, and a scant quarter hour later he descended the stairs. He only hoped Philippa took a lengthy toilet. He didn’t want her around Jagger or his unscrupulous employees, two of whom were seated on his mother’s favorite settee. Seeing them there—two criminals staining his mother’s memory—negated the bliss he’d so recently enjoyed.

Jagger stood near the fireplace, a glass of whisky dangling from his fingertips.

Ambrose took the last few steps loudly so that all three of his guests turned to look at him. “What the hell are you doing in my house drinking my whisky? I don’t recall inviting you.”

Jagger laughed and then held up his glass in mock toast. “Such charming hospitality.” He took a drink and pressed his lips together. “Fine stuff, Sevrin. I hate to bother you, but we’ve a problem with tomorrow’s bout. Ackley’s opponent tripped down a flight of stairs yesterday and broke his arm.”

Bloody hell
. Ambrose frowned, unaccountably disappointed. “They canceled the fight?”

“No, they found a replacement for him. Giant bloke called Weatherly.”

Christ
. The mammoth Ambrose had fought in Truro. “He’s a bit advanced for Ackley. He needs a few fights before he can face someone like Weatherly.”

Jagger sipped his whisky. “Good thing he won’t be fighting Ackley then.”

A cold sliver of apprehension shot down Ambrose’s neck. “What do you mean?”

“His one condition for fighting tomorrow is that you’re his opponent.”

Because the bastard was certain he could beat Ambrose.

The two men on the settee moved their heads back and forth, watching the conversation like a tennis match. Perversely, Ambrose wanted to knock their skulls together. Their presence in his drawing room only served to remind him how far he still was from becoming a worthy master of Beckwith. He was a fighter. And now a degenerate debaucher of virgins. He grasped the newel post at the base of the stairs until his knuckles whitened.

Jagger took two steps forward. “Did you hear me?”

Ambrose moved away from the stairs and toward the sideboard, to the whisky. “I did.”

“And?”

Ambrose took his time pouring a glass of his father’s decades-old whisky. He swirled the amber liquid before taking a leisurely sip. His initial response was yes. Though he’d sworn off prizefighting, a rematch with the man who’d beaten him was rather enticing.

Finally, he turned toward Jagger. After all the bastard had done, Ambrose wanted to torture him, just a bit. “You’ve nothing to force me.”

Jagger’s brows met as they dipped low over his stern gaze. “I didn’t realize I needed to.” He stepped toward Ambrose and spoke in a placating, almost deferential tone. “Consider it a training exercise for Ackley. He can watch you and learn. It would be most beneficial.”

Ambrose bit back a laugh since they’d already done exactly that. His pulse accelerated as he continued to contemplate the rematch. A rematch in which Ambrose was focused, with his eye on winning instead of losing himself. He wasn’t sure he’d ever fought a bout that way.

Though, he despised the notion of helping Jagger in any way. It was one thing to shepherd Ackley—which also benefited Jagger of course—and quite another to satisfy the man who’d threatened Philippa on multiple occasions.

Jagger swaggered around the settee where his lackeys reclined. Thank God they weren’t also sampling Ambrose’s whisky. “I gather you don’t want to resume your fighting permanently, and I swear I’ll never ask you again.” He shrugged and smiled a thief’s smile. The kind that was meant to disarm while he stole your valuables from under your nose. “You have a reputation to regain. I imagine the local townsfolk would cheer for their champion.”

Ambrose’s neck prickled. Jagger was frightfully well-informed regarding Ambrose’s current position.

Jagger moved around the settee and stalked toward Ambrose, stopping just shy of him. He regarded Ambrose with a challenging stare. “Come on. Fight.
Win
. You know you want to.”

So damn much
. Ambrose curled his free hand into a tight fist. “I’ll do it.”

“No!” Philippa’s feet tapped down the stairs with a staccato rhythm. “You’re not fighting.”

All heads in the drawing room swung to watch her descend.

Damn. She’d repaired herself—to astonishing effect—in record time. Her cheeks were still rosy, but he didn’t know if it was from her earlier pleasure or her current pique. Whatever the cause, she stirred his blood as if he hadn’t made love to her less than an hour before.

She paused at the bottom of the stairs and took in the occupants of the room. Her face paled as her gaze fell on the men seated on the settee. These men had attacked and abducted her in the past.

Ambrose moved quickly to her side. He put his arm around her and faced his visitors. “Out. You’ve overstayed.”

“I’ve gotten what I’ve come for.” Jagger set his glass on the sideboard. He gave a gallant bow to Philippa. “Delightful to see you, my lady. May I say how lovely you look?”

“You may not,” Ambrose growled. “You may not speak to her at all, in fact.”

Jagger turned and gestured for his men to follow. “Come along, you dolts.”

They stood and followed their employer from the drawing room. One of them, however, cast a lingering glance at Philippa. Ambrose fought the urge to trail him outside and beat him into Beckwith’s drive.

Philippa shivered. He turned toward her, cupping her face.

Her gaze was frantic, pleading. “Please don’t do this, Ambrose.”

“I want to fight. I need to.”

She gripped his upper arms. “Why? Forget Jagger. He has nothing to hold over us.”

How could he make her understand? “After Nigel died, fighting was all I had. It was the only thing that kept me human. It kept me alive. I can’t subsist without it.”

Her fingers dug into his arms. “You can. You have me.”

Did he have her? Aside from the physical sense? She’d made her inclination for marriage clear. He had only to propose and he
could
have her. In all sense of the word. Forever. A chill rattled his bones as he realized there was such a thing. For so long, he’d only thought about getting through the day. “It’s not the same, Philippa. Fighting is intrinsic to who I am.”

She pressed her lips together. “You’d choose violence above me.”

He wished she hadn’t put it like that. There was no comparing the two. “There’s no choice. I can’t
not
fight.”

Darkness crept into her eyes. She nodded once, but Ambrose didn’t think she truly comprehended. How could she? Fighting had literally saved his life.

She let him go, dropping her arms between them. She nudged her cheek away from him so that he was no longer touching her face. “So, you’ll fight a man who beat you a matter of days ago for a man who twice abducted me.”

He inwardly cringed. However, it was precisely because Weatherly had beaten him that Ambrose was so committed to fighting him again. Jagger’s involvement was an unfortunate coincidence he wouldn’t allow to trouble him. Besides, he posed no danger to Philippa anymore.

Further debate was pointless. Instead, he asked, “How did you know I fought him before?”

“Ackley mentioned him by name. How predictable of you to deflect the conversation away from yourself. From your feelings.” She stepped backward, well outside of his reach. “Please tell Mrs. Oldham I prefer to eat in my room this evening.”

His body thrummed with pent-up energy. It was as if the bone-melting bliss he’d experienced such a short time ago had never been. “Will you still come to the fight tomorrow?”

“No, I’ve had quite enough of watching you hurt yourself. I’ll be preparing to leave.” She set her hand on the staircase railing. The veins in her wrist were taut as she gripped the wood.

He was afraid to ask it aloud, but had to know for sure. “You’re going to your father’s? To marry?”

Her eyes flickered with surprise. “How did you know?”

It was true. “Lettice told me.” More surprise. “I saw her this afternoon,” he added.

“Good, maybe now you can start to heal.” She paused, but looked as if she might say something more. Then she pressed her lips together. Finally, she turned from him, murmuring, “Good night, Ambrose” as she ascended the stairs.

He nearly went after her. In his mind, he was already following her to her chamber, begging her to take him into her bed one more time. But what was the point of that when it would only be one more time? What he really ought to do was beg her not to marry whomever her father had chosen. If she could just wait a little longer, perhaps he could be the man she deserved.

No, it was good she was leaving. If she stayed with him, his selfishness and his passion would surely destroy her just as it had done Nigel.

He would focus on the fight, on winning. Then he’d come back to Beckwith and fulfill his duty. Alone.

Chapter Twenty-four