To Sin With A Scoundrel (33 page)

The Wicked Witch of Pont Street
.

Most men were afraid of a woman with brains. While he found her intellect and accomplishments inspiring. Exciting. Enchanting.
Amazing. She made him wish to be a better man.

But not just now. Weak, selfish sybarite that he was, he could not pull back. His body was afire with crude, carnal lust.
He thrust into her, feeling her liquid heat close around him. “You bedazzle me. Beguile me.”
Bewitch me
.

She arched up to meet him, her eyes reflecting the luminous light of the stars. Their bodies rose and fell in a sinuous rhythm.
Faster and faster, until her heartbeat was a wild drumming in his ears.
Or was it his own?

Impossible to tell.

The pulsing beat drove him on. A last thrust and he felt her hips lift and a surging shudder dissolve into a liquid cry.

His own shout of savage satisfaction echoed her climax. She was
his
now—all his.

As she convulsed around him, Lucas pulled out just in the nick of time, his essence spattering over her cream-white belly.

“Sweetheart.” Bracing himself on hands and knees, he covered her throat with kisses until her gasps subsided.

Damn.
That had been a close call. Neither of them had given any heed to protection, and begetting a child on her would only add
to her troubles. However, an odd pang of longing twisted inside him as he leaned back and gently wiped his seed from her skin
with a corner of the sheet.

She now lay perfectly still, her lashes lowered, her hair fanned out on the pillows like a shimmering halo of gold. Strangely
enough, he felt a little awkward about breaking the silence. Words somehow seemed inadequate for anything he might wish to
say. Instead, he simply lowered himself down beside her, content just to savor the little details about her—the scent of her
sex, the softness of her spent body, the gentle rhythm of her breathing.

After a moment, Lucas cuddled closer and curled a hand possessively over her hip, aware of an utterly unfamiliar sensation
spreading through his limbs. It wasn’t the purely physical thrum of sated pleasure. This was more… cerebral.
Contentment?
No, something far more profound. Perhaps
peace
was a better description. The aimless urge that drove him to seek ever-more desperate thrills seemed to have stilled within
him.

Ciara stirred and opened her eyes halfway. “Mmmm.” Her voice was slightly slurred, a sleepy, smoky, sexy sound. She blinked,
trying to sharpen her gaze. “Luuucas.” He loved the way she said it, drawing it out as if it were a length of melting toffee.
“This was special—”

Smiling, he hushed her with a finger to the lips. “Yes, it was.”

Ciara looked sweetly flustered, so unlike her usual self. “Th-that was not precisely what I meant.” She shifted with a lazy
wriggle, propping herself up on one elbow.

As Lucas watched the sheet slide over the curve of her breast, he felt his cock twitch.
Damn.
He did not want to overwhelm her with his carnal lust, but another fraction of an inch and he would be hard-pressed to keep
from rolling her back and having her again.

“I meant, the circumstances were special.” She bit her lip. “We can’t… that is, we mustn’t—”

“Shush.” He brushed his lips to hers and tucked the sheet around her. “Sleep now, sweetheart. We’ll try to make some sense
of it all later.”

T
he Day After.

Ciara made a wry face. Oh, dear, that sounded so gothic. She wasn’t some peagoose heroine in a novel. She was a rational scientist,
trained to be disciplined and detached.

So why were her thoughts swirling like puffs of pollen in the breeze?

The mists had blown off, leaving the morning cool and cloudless as she approached the climb to the cliffs. Hiking her skirts,
Ciara rounded the tangle of brambles and scrambled over the outcropping of granite. She had risen early and decided to take
a long walk, rather than appear in the breakfast room. At some point she would have to face Lucas in the light of day, but
she would rather not do it over kippers and toast—or the scientific patter of Ariel and Sir Henry.

The thought of a discussion on reproductive details, even if they were about flowers, made her stomach slightly queasy.

Winding through a last steep stretch of rock, the footpath finally brought her to the crest of the cliff. In the slanting
sunlight, the blue of the ocean was nearly blinding in its brilliance, the aquamarine hue dotted with flecks of foamy whitecaps
for as far as the eye could see. High overhead, gulls wheeled on the gusting winds, the echo of their raucous cries nearly
drowned by the pounding of the surf below.

For an instant, she envied their freedom to fly away, to wherever their wings and their whimsy might take them. How exhilarating
it would be to sail through the heavens without a care in the world.

Don’t be a bird-witted fool,
she scolded herself. Life was not so simple, even for a
Larus argentatus
. Every species on earth had predators lurking, ready to pounce at the tiniest slip in vigilance.

She, at least, had a brain to counter any threats.

Though it could be argued that hers was not in full working order at the present time.

How else to explain the fact that she had made mad, passionate love to Mad, Bad Had-ley?

Taking a seat on a sun-warmed slab of stone, Ciara shaded her eyes and stared out to sea. Had she cast off all common sense,
leaving herself adrift in shoaling waters? The earl could not be counted on as an anchor—only look at how he had floated through
life, content to bob along in whatever current caught his fancy.

She bit her lip and winced, the flesh still tender from the torrid force of his kisses. But at the moment, it was not Lucas
who had to answer for his actions. She could have—should have—said no.

“No!” she cried, startling a plover from his roost on the rocks.

No.
She would
not
let guilt drag her down to the depths of self-loathing. There was an old English adage…
if you make your bed, you must be prepared to sleep in it.

That the sinfully sexy Earl of Hadley happened to be in it with her last night added an awkward twist to the sheets. One thing
was certain, she couldn’t make a habit of it. For any number of compelling reasons.

But no matter all the rationales against the relationship, she could not bring herself to regret the night. Lucas was not
perfect—what man or woman was? But neither was he so wicked or wanton as he claimed to be. He had played the role of devil-may-care
rake for so long that by now it was like a second skin. And yet beneath the careless carousing and shocking stunts was a compassionate,
caring man. He was kind, he was funny, he was loyal, he was… lovable despite all his faults.

Love?

Oh, surely not. Her brain, however impaired, knew better than to let her fall in love with Mad, Bad Had-ley.

The only trouble was that the rest of her body was refusing to listen to the warnings.

Salt stung her mouth as Ciara sighed and rose. The mysteries of the heart defied all human logic. Better to concentrate her
efforts on the ancient manuscript, whose arcane code was based on reason. Perhaps with the help of her friends, she could
finally coax the secret from the last section of coding. Already, she had an idea about the final result. If she was right…

Lost in scientific thought, she began making her way back to the manor house. From what she had pieced together so far, she
had a feeling that there was an important connection between the
Penicillium notatum
mold and—

“Ciao, bella!”

As Ciara crossed through the orchard, Alessandra’s call roused her from her scholarly musings.

“I finished my business in Bournemouth a day early, so decided to come on ahead of schedule,” continued her friend. “Ariel
said you had gone for a walk in the hills, so I thought I would come meet you.”

“Oh, Lord, I am
so
glad you are here.”

Alessandra took her arm and fixed her with a searching look. “Has something else happened?”

“N-no. Yes.” She caught her breath. “No.”

Alessandra stared a fraction longer before shaking her head. “
Santa cielo,
I hope you know what you are doing.”

Ciara colored under her friend’s scrutiny. “Is it so very obvious?”

“Only because I recognize the subtle little changes,” came the cryptic reply. “There are certain things a woman cannot hide.”
Her friend flicked out a finger. “And some that you can. Pull your collar a touch higher,
bella.
You’ve a love bite on your neck.”

Blushing, Ciara fumbled with the soft merino wool.

“Not that I blame you in the least,” added Alessandra. “He’s a
very
attractive man.”

“Still, it wasn’t very smart of me,” said Ciara softly.

“
Tesoro,
the heart is a perverse little organ with a mind of its own. Unlike the brain, it refuses to be ruled by logic or reason.”

“So I have discovered.” Ciara made a wry face. “Lud, as if I don’t have enough trouble in my life right now without
this
.”

“Or
that,
” quipped her friend. “Tell me—”

“I will not,” muttered Ciara.

“Tell me, does Ariel know?”

“No! And please don’t tell her.”

“Don’t worry,
bella.
” Alessandra regarded her rings for a long moment. “I can keep a secret.”

Ciara heaved a ragged sigh. “Thank you.”

They turned onto a path through the gardens, and for some moments, the only sounds between them were the soft crunch of gravel.

“I shall not say another word on the subject,” murmured Alessandra as they rounded a trellis of climbing roses. “But if you
feel in need of any advice, you have only to ask.”

“Actually, I do have some pressing questions.” Her mouth quirked. “But they concern Sir Henry’s manuscript. I think I am coming
close to the answer, but I would like your opinion, and that of Ariel, about my idea. It may sound crazy, but…”

Lucas watched the two ladies cross the lawn, heads bent together in deep conversation. He couldn’t help but wonder what had
them so engrossed. Some arcane archaeological discovery? The marchesa was, after all, a noted expert in the field.

Alessandra’s sudden laugh rose above the twittering of the songbirds, then died away just as quickly.

Hell.
He hoped they were discussing an ancient artifact and not some other subject.
Did ladies have the same code of honor as gentlemen about discussing the details of—

“HADLEY!”
Two juvenile voices chorused as one.

He started, a fraction too late. The cricket ball smacked him square in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. With an echoing
thud, his rump hit the ground.

Both Peregrine and Isabella came running.

“Are you all right, sir?” asked the boy, skidding to a stop.

“We called out,” said Isabella. “Several times.”

“My fault entirely,” wheezed Lucas. “I must have been woolgathering.”

“At least she didn’t break your skull,” pointed out Peregrine with a snigger.

Isabella scrunched her mouth in indignation. “I’ll have you know that’s
exactly
where I was aiming!” She looked at Hadley, her expression brightening quite a bit. “It worked, sir! I am learning to put
a really wicked spin on the ball, just like you showed me. And now my throws are right on target.”

“A splendid pitch, Isa,” he assured her. “I’ll wager that no wicket can stand up to your prowess.”

The little girl beamed.

Peregrine waggled his bat. “She’ll have to get the ball by me first.”

“Ha!” She gave a toss of her ebony curls. “You still have a funny hitch to your swing.”

“Let’s have a look,” said Lucas before any further words could be exchanged.

He rose rather gingerly and picked up the ball.
So much for intimate adult musings.
He made a wry face. It was probably all for the best that he kept himself occupied with other activities. Thinking of Ciara,
stretched out in delightful dishabille among the rumpled sheets, was obviously dangerous…

“Hadley?” Peregrine gave him a fishy stare.

“Er, right.” Lucas made a show of inspecting the seams of the ball. “Just checking that Isa didn’t scorch the leather with
her throw.”

The little girl giggled.

“Now, Perry, take your place and let’s see your form. Remember—elbows in, wrists cocked.”

Their shouts and laughs were soon punctuated by a deliriously happy bark as Mephisto bolted from the kennels to join in play.
The dog was delighted to fetch the batted balls, and though it took some wrestling to retrieve the chewed leather, his antics
kept Peregrine and Isabella much amused. By the time they all traipsed into the kitchen for lemonade and jam tarts, the two
children had finally been run ragged and agreed that the game was done for the day.

Lucas flexed his shoulders. Lud, he must be getting old—he had forgotten just how much stamina it took to keep up with two
active eight-year-olds.