Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3) (18 page)

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Authors: Mia Marlowe

BOOK: Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3)
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Once they were inside the house, his mother and sister pecked his cheek good night and headed up the curving staircase. The town house was dark save for a dim flicker in the parlor. Ted peeked in and found Devon sprawled on the settee with a glass of amber liquid in his hand.
“Headache?” he asked. His brother had been plagued with them on occasion for as long as he could remember. Devon usually avoided drinking to excess, so Ted figured this migraine must be a particularly virulent one.
Devon nodded and then told him what Dr. Trowbridge had had to say about Farnsworth’s illness. The news was grim, not at all the sort of capper one would wish for an evening that had been filled with lighthearted fun.
“He’s been sicklier than usual of late, but one always hopes, doesn’t one?” Theodore crossed over to the liquor cabinet and filled a tumbler with scotch for himself. Maybe it would ease his guilt the way it eased his brother’s headache. His friend Dr. Farnsworth was truly ill and Ted hadn’t been there in his time of need.
The tightness that gathered in his chest surprised him. The old man had become more to him than merely Emmaline’s father. Dr. Farnsworth was his partner in an adventure, his mentor, a man whose approval had become quite important as of late. Ted had still been in short pants when his own father died. In many ways, Montague Farnsworth filled the previous earl of Devonwood’s long empty shoes.
“How did Emmaline take it?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Devon said, a frown knitting his dark brows together. “She . . . is a very private person.”
“She’ll be fine,” Theodore said.
Emmaline was always fine, always in control, always the smartest person in the room. Lord, how it pleased him when he discovered the rare tidbit she didn’t already know.
It certainly didn’t happen often.
Cressida, by contrast, had made him feel like Newton, da Vinci and Euripides all rolled into one. Not that Cressie—she’d insisted he call her that—wasn’t intelligent. It was just that she made him feel that way, too.
“Do me a favor, will you?” Devon said, his words slurring a bit.
Theodore jerked in surprise. Devon never asked him for anything, much less a favor. “Of course.”
“Trade rooms with me for the night. Mine is at the front of the house and light from the gas lamps on the street blazes in. I can’t bear it.”
“You might pull the drapes.”
“I want a bit of air.” Devon leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees.
Even in the dimness, Theodore saw a raised vein marring the smooth plane on his brother’s forehead, a sure sign he was in the throes of an unusually bad migraine. No wonder he’d imbibed enough to slur his speech.
“Your room looks out over the garden, Ted. It’s cool and dark and quiet . . . it’s the only way I’ll sleep tonight.”
“Certainly, I’ll just go collect my nightshirt,” Theodore said, rising.
“Use one of mine.” Devon’s tone was harsher than warranted as he rose and stomped toward the door, weaving slightly.
Ted chalked up his surliness to the deuced headache. “Thank you for taking care of Emmaline for me tonight.”
Devon stopped and leaned an arm on the doorframe, but he didn’t turn around to face Ted. “You’ll take care of her from now on.”
C
HAPTER
21
E
mmaline closed her window and slid the latch, locking out the night. The scent of jasmine in the garden below was so sweet, it made her light-headed.
Yes, that’s it.
Only the cloying fragrance troubled her sleep, she decided as she climbed back between the cool linens. After a few moments of fidgeting, she threw back the top sheet and coverlet.
Or maybe it’s the moon.
Luminescence shafted through her window in a splash of silver. She padded across the room and tugged the damask curtains closed. Light still fingered through the slit and made a beeline across the floor to her bed.
She pummeled her pillow into the desired plumpness and lay back down.
Monty’s illness was probably why sleep fled from her, but she resisted thinking about it. Someday soon, she’d have to search out information on tuberculosis, to learn what she could about the course of the disease so there’d be no surprises. She’d help him face what was ahead.
Knowledge is power, Monty always said.
She didn’t want to have that sort of power yet.
Consumption was Pandora’s box. She didn’t dare open it for fear of the horrors that might escape into her mind. There was no way to “un-know” something.
And no way to un-do something either.
She sat up, dangling her legs off the edge of the high bed. She spread her knees to shoulder width and allowed herself to remember the way Devon had distracted her utterly with her own body. She’d never imagined she was capable of such heart-pounding joy.
She let her head fall back and admitted this was the real reason she couldn’t sleep. Warmth coursed through her. The tiny muscles inside her that had rioted in pleasure earlier pulsed once now simply on the strength of her memory of his talented fingers.
Why had she allowed Griffin to touch her like that?
She’d never considered herself a sensual person, but with him, she was as randy as the highest flying courtesan.
Was she truly so weak the man could seduce her at will?
Apparently.
Her shoulders slumped.
She was still a virgin, but she was no longer innocent. How much longer would it be before Griffin found a way to take her maidenhead, too?
Not long
. She’d been within an ace of handing it to him. That wicked surfeit of pleasure stripped away every bit of propriety, all sense of “ought-ness” from her. His need had not been met by their indecent play and it tugged at her with as much force as her own desires. If not for Baxter’s footsteps outside the door, if not for Monty’s illness, she’d have dragged Griffin down beside her on the bed and found a way to cure his ills, despite her lack of experience.
In the cold light of reason, other than appeasing her appetite for the man, no good could come of bedding him. In the beguiling light of the moon, her body tried to argue with her mind.
She’d lose her only marketable commodity in the marriage game—her purity. And while Theodore had offered to wed her, Lord Devonwood seemed intent only on seducing her at every turn.
Even if she went to Griffin’s bed, he probably wouldn’t marry her. Society didn’t censure a nobleman for dallying with a girl beneath his station. It wasn’t as if her father was a powerful lord, whose future goodwill Lord Devonwood might need. Monty wasn’t even wealthy enough to provide a decent dowry. Certainly not enough of one to tempt an earl.
But none of that mattered to Theodore.
Dear, sweet Teddy. He would marry her in a trice if she’d only accept him.
Or would he, now that he’d rejoined his friends in London society? It was one thing to propose under a full moon on the Mediterranean when all the world was bathed in a romantic haze. It was quite another to take a penniless bride in cold London daylight.
She glared at the moonlight streaking across her floor, knife-thin. How many lives had been upended by decisions made under the influence of that silver light?
At least Ted need not worry that Griffin would cut him off if she did accept him. He’d assured her nothing Ted might do would change his brother’s standing with him. It wasn’t much of a leap for her to realize Theodore cared enough about Monty to use his generous allowance to enable them to travel to Görbersdorf right away.
Monty might yet recover.
She flopped back down on the bed and slung a forearm over her eyes. She’d tell Teddy tomorrow that she’d made up her mind. Her answer was yes.
Her stomach squirmed a bit.
Teddy was a good man. If she married him, she’d be able to convince Monty to give up the long con. She’d never have to play those games again. She’d have a home—please, God!—a family, and a chance at a normal life. After his treatment on the Continent, Monty might rally and live long enough to dandle her children on his knees.
A lump of disquiet settled in her belly. Why could she not be happy with her choice?
Griffin’s darkly sensual face rose in her mind.
She sat up abruptly. She couldn’t wait till tomorrow. She needed to tell Teddy now. Tonight.
Better yet, she needed to seduce him. Unlike Griffin, if she and Theodore were found
in flagrante delicto
, Teddy could be counted upon to do the honorable thing since he’d already asked her to marry him.
If she waited, anything might happen. Theodore might change his mind. Lady Cressida might change it for him. Even if Emmaline hadn’t overheard that lady’s intention to set her cap for Ted, it wasn’t hard to miss the way she flirted and flattered him. By anyone’s measure, Lady Cressida was a far better match for Theodore than she.
Emmaline rose from bed and hurried to the chifferobe. She changed into her best chemise. She didn’t wear scent often, even though Monty had bought her a small bottle of Eau de Cologne Imperiale, a rich citrusy fragrance with undertones of rosemary and cedar. It was an extravagance they couldn’t afford, leaving Egypt in haste as they had, but he’d insisted.
Theodore had remarked on the heady scent the night he proposed. She dabbed a bit of expensive oil behind her ears and between the hollow of her breasts. Perhaps the rich fragrance would help Teddy remember why he’d asked her to marry him.
Emmaline would need all the help she could get. She slipped out her door and tiptoed across the hallway to Theodore’s, her heart hammering. She spared a moment to peer down the dark corridor toward Griffin’s chamber. Regret shuddered through her and it took everything in her not to walk to the end of the hall and open his door instead.
Regret is a waste of time,
she reminded herself. With effort, she steadied herself with a palm on Ted’s doorknob, the crystal hard and cold in her hand.
Hard and cold. Just as she had to be in this moment.
She was still a scoundrel and still full of self-loathing over it. Emma was embarking on the longest long con anyone had surely ever attempted.
She was going to seduce and wed one brother, but all the while she’d be thinking of the other.
And would for as long as she drew breath.
 
Devon heard the door creak, but he didn’t move.
I’m dreaming,
he told himself.
He was also very drunk. Devon usually avoided strong spirits because a foxed man was a weak man. A drunk gambled when he couldn’t afford to lose and made decisions he’d later regret. But Devon didn’t regret swilling whisky this night. The spirits deadened his pain and sent him into sleepy oblivion.
If ever he needed to wallow in forgetfulness, it was this night.
The sound he thought he heard was surely in his imagination. He tried to dive back below the surface of sleep before he came fully aware. He damn sure didn’t want to lie awake
knowing
Emma had stolen into his bedchamber at the end of the hall and was being swived by his brother.
Or worse, God help him,
hearing
Emma being swived by Theodore. His chamber was several doors away, but she made the most alluring little noises when she was pleasured.
His headache flared and he squeezed his eyes tight. He couldn’t think about her now, not when she was with Ted. Reliving their earlier tryst was the path to madness.
A floorboard gave with a small groan and Devon thought he heard the swish of bare feet approaching. He didn’t bother opening his eyes. He was imagining it all, hoping against hope that his vision might somehow come to pass.
He rarely made an effort to derail the future, but this one seemed mistake proof. Fate would have a damned difficult time leading her to his bed if he wasn’t in it.
A citrusy fragrance curled around him. That tore it. Emmaline smelled like a warm peach, not a top-tier courtesan. He was surely dreaming.
There.
He heard the soft sibilance of someone else’s shallow breathing.
It can’t be
.
Someone lifted the linens.
Whisky-soaked fantasy
.
Sweat gathered at his temples as his headache raged with blinding agony.
A touch, soft as eiderdown, swept over his bare back. His pain sloughed away, as if someone had poured a pitcher of cool water over his pounding head. Anguish washed away in runnels. The blessed brush of her fingertips sent warmth and light to his battered soul.
If he was dreaming, he didn’t want to wake. If this was what whisky did to him, he’d take up drinking in earnest.
By some minor miracle, Emmaline was in his bed. Real or phantom, it had to be her. No one else could banish his pain with a touch.
Euphoria swept over him. Whether from the cessation of his headache, from the alcoholic fog of Glenlivet, or from the woman whose soft breasts were pressed against his back, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he basked in a warm embrace, blissfully free from pain.
Growing harder by the moment.
 
Emma’s heart pounded. Why didn’t Theodore turn to her? Why didn’t he say something? She had no idea he’d be such a heavy sleeper.
A faint whiff of alcohol tickled her nostrils.
Oh, God, he’s foxed.
Perhaps he wouldn’t wake long enough to take her maidenhead and settle matters once and for all. Worse, perhaps drink would render him unable to do the deed.
Trembling inside, she wrapped herself around him. It was too dark to see properly, but there was no mistaking the fact that he was naked.
Didn’t men sleep in nightshirts? Monty always did. Somehow this whole scheme would have been less embarrassing if Theodore were decently covered, if their only contact was the necessary one that would secure him as irrevocably hers. She’d heard that some husbands and wives spent their entire lifetimes and raised half a dozen children without once being in the altogether in each other’s presence.
He groaned, the low feral sound of a pleased male animal. She pressed her cheek against the smooth skin of his back and heard his heart pounding like a trip hammer. He smelled deliciously male, with only a faint hint of bergamot and sandalwood.
He still didn’t turn to her. Emmaline’s seduction would be so much easier if Teddy was behaving like himself. She usually had to fend off his advances, to cut his kisses short and reroute his caresses. She never imagined she’d have to be the one to, well, to initiate things.
In for a penny . . .
She reached around and stroked his belly. Then her hand grazed something that was decidedly not his abdomen, something hard and thick. It was longer than she’d expected and surprisingly hot to the touch.
She slid her palm over his length. The skin was smooth and taut over a granite-hard erection. She needn’t have worried that being foxed would impede his ability to take her maidenhead. He was more than capable.
Her only worry now was whether he’d remember it in the morning.
Lower down, she discovered a surprising bit of softness on this hard man. She fondled the twin orbs in a sac of skin dusted with wiry hair.
Why doesn’t he say something?
Surely this sort of thing wasn’t a common occurrence for him. Lord knew, it wasn’t for her.
“I wish you’d—”
Before she could finish her sentence he rolled toward her and covered her mouth with his, swallowing the rest of her words. He tasted of whisky, all smoke and peat, but it was far from unpleasant.
His mouth was tender on hers, seeking.
She didn’t have to try very hard to imagine that it was Griffin instead of Teddy. He kissed with the same gentle sureness.
Her body responded with the same low ache. Perhaps she could do this, after all. It was for her father, she reminded herself. She’d see him well and sort out the rest of her life later.
Then the man in the bed deepened their kiss and all thoughts of Monty fled.

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