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Authors: Mia Marlowe

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BOOK: Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3)
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“. . . in literature,” he finally finished. “Ask her how she feels about
Titus Andronicus
sometime.”
He would have to remind her how Shakespeare had slipped from between them moments before her knee connected with his nether parts. She jerked her gaze from him, sure her cheeks were giving her unmaidenly thoughts away with another infernal blush.
Monty caught her eye and cocked a questioning brow, but Emmaline gave him an almost imperceptible shake of her head. She ought to have warned Monty of this potential complication, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell him she’d kissed the earl or worse, that she’d enjoyed it like a common strumpet.
“Yes, indeed, Teddy,” the earl said. “Your Miss Farnsworth is absolutely astonishing.”
“You see.” Theodore turned to her with a soppy grin on his face. “I told you my family would love you, too.”
“What’s this business about the statue Miss Farnsworth mentioned, Theodore?” the countess asked, signaling an abrupt change of topic. “I’ve never known you to be interested in art, dear.”
“Well, it’s not exactly art,” Theodore said. “It’s an artifact. It’ll revolutionize the study of the ancients and our understanding of them if we can only convince others of the import of the piece. I wonder if you’d mind showing it to my family, Dr. Farnsworth.”
“Certainly, my boy.” Monty stood and bowed to the countess. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, milady.”
Emma dabbed her lips with her napkin to hide her smile. They couldn’t have planned matters more neatly. She hoped Monty restrained himself from taking the stairs two at a time in his zeal to retrieve the statue and return quickly.
A clever trickster could maneuver the conversation in a way that benefitted him, but patience was always best. The hook went in deeper and without causing alarm if the mark asked for more of his own volition.
“Keep your seat, Farnsworth,” Lord Devonwood said. “We haven’t had dessert yet. We’ve only just begun to recover from our astonishment over your daughter. I’m not certain we can bear much more amazement. Surely whatever wonderment this statue represents will keep till we’ve digested our crème brûlée.”
C
HAPTER 7
D
evon knew he was being churlish, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Emmaline Farnsworth turned the color of a ripe peach with guilt every time she glanced his way. Her bare shoulders and exquisitely displayed bosom in that cream-colored gown threatened his self-control so thoroughly, the only way he could keep a handle on the situation was to exercise his control over others.
Otherwise he might give in and announce to the world and his brother that he’d kissed her. More than that, he’d made her moan. Of course, she’d launched a serious attempt at maiming him for life after that delicious moment, but for an indecent interval before, she’d been as lost in lust as he.
He ought to have let Emmaline’s father go retrieve whatever it was that Teddy was so excited about. Perhaps it would’ve distracted him from the sweet hollow between his brother’s almost fiancée’s breasts.
Devon was no stranger to a woman’s charms. It was no surprise that he’d enjoyed kissing her, but it astounded him that he couldn’t stop thinking about it. The warm sanctuary of her mouth, the honeyed sweetness under her tongue, the way she’d suckled his—he couldn’t shake the dark and delectable sensations she stirred in him.
Then there was the fact that her kiss had driven away his beastly headache. Nothing had ever touched his malady like that before.
He drained his wineglass and upon a mere flick of his gaze, the footman refilled it without being told. Maybe getting roaring drunk would drown out the siren call of Miss Farnsworth’s dangerous allure.
Dessert came, but the crusty sweet wasn’t nearly as luscious as the memory of her lips. Still, Devon bolted it down, sheered every last bit of the crème brûlée from the delicate china with a loud scrape. Then he licked the spoon clean. His mother shook her head at him, but said nothing.
What could she say? He was the earl, the peer. A country that tolerated mad kings had no trouble accepting eccentricities in its gentry. If he wanted to stand on his head in the middle of the table, no one would tell him it wasn’t perfectly appropriate.
“Well, let’s see this wonder you’re so enamored with, Ted.” Devon rose from his place without first making sure the rest of the party had finished their desserts. He strode down the length of the table and offered Emmaline his arm. “While her father collects the artifact, I’ll show Miss Farnsworth around the orangery. We’ll join you in the parlor in a bit.”
Sometimes, it was very good to be a titled lord.
She rose to her feet and took his arm. What else could she do?
At least he wasn’t standing on his head.
Without bothering to see how the rest of the party paired off to adjourn to the parlor, he whisked Miss Farnsworth out the door and down the hall toward the fragrant orangery.
“In most civilized countries, it is customary to remain at table until everyone is finished dining,” she said once they were out of earshot of the others. “That was more than a little rude, don’t you think?”
“No one else complained.”
“How would they dare? Your mother feels it necessary to apologize to you even when the error is yours. Your sister would be grateful as a basset if you’d only notice her once, and Theodore worships the air you breathe. You’re either unaware or unconcerned that you’re behaving boorishly and no one has the courage to tell you.”
Oh, that’s right. Yanks don’t put up with kings, mad or otherwise, do they?
“No one except you, Miss Farnsworth.”
She kept her voice pleasantly low and musical, as if she weren’t berating him. Should the rest of the party chance to overhear, they’d never suspect from her tone that she was verbally flaying him alive.
“Why do you torment your family so?” she said, increasing the pressure of her fingertips on his arm to punctuate her words. “You’ve been an insufferable bully all evening.”
“How kind of you to notice.” For the life of him, he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had taken him to task over anything. It felt strangely comforting, nearly as comforting as the slight weight of her fingertips on his sleeve. As an earl, he was a man without limits. Even his tutors had stopped chiding him once he came into the title. Short of doing murder, Devon could get away with anything. “I was doing my best to irritate you mostly.”
“You succeeded, but I’m not the only one who notices your brusqueness,” Emmaline said. “Just because no one else brings you to account, it doesn’t mean that your family doesn’t suffer from the things you do.”
She had no idea the things he did to ensure his family’s comfort. “Believe me, my days are thoroughly occupied with making certain my family does
not
suffer.”
“Do you think Theodore is blithe about the way you spirited me out of the room?”
Devon shrugged. “Teddy is anxious for me to approve of you. I expect he’s pleased I’ve condescended to show you some attention.”
She actually snorted. “My heart will continue to beat without your
condescension
. Pray, do not trouble yourself on my account, milord.”
“It’s very little trouble. I wouldn’t do it if it were otherwise.”
“Oh, that’s right. You abhor labor of any kind.”
Devon had no problem with work. In truth, he worked unceasingly to keep his very leaky estate afloat, but it wouldn’t do to be seen to be laboring. While Polite Society was harsh toward its impoverished nobles, it set strict limits on how wealth might be acceptably achieved. Devon would happily tell the ton to go chase itself, but he knew the good opinion of that world mattered to his mother. Without continued success in his myriad investments and occasional winnings at the gaming tables, he might be forced to petition the House of Lords to break the estate’s entail and sell off a portion of his sprawling property.
Only last year, his friend Lord Northrop had gone crawling to that august body begging to be allowed to part with some of his land in order to prop up his decaying estate. The marquess had tired of dealing with the incessant water damage from the faulty roof, the moldering tapestries of his country seat and his tenants’ constant complaints over lack of maintenance to their cottages.
Of course, the fact that Northrop gambled to excess and overspent on his high-flying mistress might have been his main trouble, but there was no denying it was deucedly expensive to keep up the style expected of a landed noble.
No Earl of Devonwood had ever yielded a foot of earth. He was determined not to be the first.
“Actually, Miss Farnsworth, you might want to refrain from scolding me because in a few moments I’ll be taking your advice.”
That brought her up short for half a step, but then she continued by his side. “How so?”
“You pointed out to me this afternoon that my home abounds in beauties to which I’ve become inured. Since I suspect you are the sort who relishes being proved correct, I thought you might enjoy accompanying me as I rediscover the delights of my orangery.”
He pushed open the door leading to the enclosed garden and the fresh breath of citrus, gardenias, and oleander rushed into his nostrils. The south-facing room was lined with Palladian windows and during his grandfather’s tenure as the earl, the slate roof had been replaced with glazed glass to further extend the artificial growing season. Now it exposed the black vault of the night sky and hazy stars winking above them, barely visible in the low flicker of the gas wall sconces.
“Of course, the orangery at Devonwood Park is much larger.” It needed to be in order to service his rambling country estate. “But this little jewel box of a room is truly lovely, isn’t it?” he said with fresh appreciation for something he’d almost forgotten he possessed. “ ‘A thing of beauty—’ ”
“ ‘Is a joy forever,’ ” she finished for him, unconcerned over interrupting a peer of the realm. She left his side to advance into the sweet-smelling bower, paused by the fountain, and smiled over her bare shoulder at him. “So you have read a bit from your library. I adore Keats, too.”
Surprisingly enough, he didn’t mind that she’d interrupted him.
Must be the novelty of anyone daring to do it.
“Along with poetry, I also enjoy a spot of botany. I recognize most of the plants here,” she said, “but what is that creeper in the corner along the brick there?”
“Ficus pumila.”
The scientific name bubbled to the surface of his consciousness. It was one of the myriad facts he’d squirreled away during his interminable studies with his tutors before he went away to Oxford. Yet another speck of minutiae he’d never expected to need once he came into his title. Now, because of the way her brows arched in surprise, he was glad to be able to call up the information. “It’s a sort of climbing fig.”
It had, in fact, climbed around the arch of one of the Palladian windows.
“It does seem to be taking over,” she said. “Does it bear fruit?”
“No, it can be pollinated only by a certain species of Asian wasp.”
“So there can be no growth without the risk of a few stings,” she said.
His mother wouldn’t welcome the introduction of winged six-legged beasties into their home, even in the interests of horticulture. “Who wants to deal with that?”
She frowned at him. “Someone who likes figs. I doubt it’s occurred to you that all growth involves pain of some sort. You really don’t allow yourself to be inconvenienced in the slightest, do you?
“I beg to differ. I suffered quite a sting in my library just this afternoon.”
She had the grace to look chagrined. “About that . . . I hope you haven’t sustained any . . . lasting damage.”
The becoming blush spread over her exposed skin again, like a maple tree erupting in the flame of autumn. Lord, he loved it when she changed colors.
“I’m truly sorry, your lordship.”
He almost asked if she’d like to kiss it to make it better, but decided he wasn’t nearly drunk enough to get away with that level of lewdness. Still the thought of her mouth on him made his cock swell and ache pleasantly.
“Don’t think on it again.” If her knee to his groin was the price for being able to kiss her thoroughly, he considered it a bargain in hindsight. Especially since for some unknown reason, the kiss had completely banished his migraine. “However, I want you to know I don’t normally force myself on women who don’t welcome my attentions.”
“Then why did you kiss me in the first place?”
I saw myself kissing you in a vision and couldn’t resist the pull of destiny.
No, he couldn’t divulge his foresight to her. The last person he’d taken into his confidence about his gift of touch was a professor at university whom he’d tried to warn about eating an apple too quickly. In Devon’s vision, the man died clutching his throat and thrashing on the floor. The professor began enquiring about the process of how one might quietly have a nobleman committed to Bedlam. Only the fact that Devon’s vision came to pass within the usual twelve hours ensured his continued freedom.
“Who knows why a man feels his kiss will be welcomed by a woman? Courtship is a dance, a ritual, if you will. Signals are given and received,” Devon said. “Obviously, I must have misinterpreted yours.”
“I’m gratified to hear you say so. I certainly didn’t intentionally encourage your advances.”
Her hand crept to her cheek. She brushed back a tendril that had escaped her chignon, tucking it behind the shell of her ear, unaware he found that nervous gesture utterly adorable.
“I want to assure you, milord,” she said in clipped tones, “that I do not make a habit of kissing men whose Christian names I don’t even know.”
She fixed her gaze on the creeping fig as if unable to meet his eyes.
“It’s Griffin,” he said suddenly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard it used. “My name is Griffin Titus Preston Nash.”
“Griffin.” Her lips curved in a smile. “A mythological beast. I should have guessed.”
A gryphon had the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion. With his confounded gift of touch and the future pressing in on him uninvited at any moment, he often felt less than human.
“I suppose you think it fitting that I should be named for a monster,” he said.
“Oh, no, not a monster. A gryphon is a majestic creature, a protector and guardian of the things it holds precious.” She bent to sniff a budding camellia.
He plucked it off and gave it to her. If she had any idea what happened to her décolletage when she tipped forward like that . . . He was able to catch a fleeting glimpse of the slightly darker skin of her areolae around her nipples. If she knew, she wouldn’t do it.
Or maybe she would, if she were trying to send him a furtive signal . . .
“With a name like Griffin, I shouldn’t wonder that you’ve appointed yourself your brother’s keeper.” She held the camellia to her nose, closed her eyes, and inhaled. A smile burst over her face like sunrise cresting over Snowdon. “They mate for life, you know.”
“Who does?”
“Gryphons. I read a medieval treatise on them once.” The way she peered at him over the waxy petals of the flower reminded him of how she’d peeked over the top of
Titus Andronicus
. She sighed. “They are elegant and noble creatures. Even if one member of a mated pair dies, the other will not seek a new mate, but will grieve over its loss till it joins its true love in death.”
BOOK: Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3)
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