Heart’s Temptation Books 1–3

by Scott, Scarlett

  “I’m sure I do,” she said, the saucy woman. She lowered her gaze to the obvious bulge in his trousers, which hadn’t had the courtesy to abate even a bit. The minx. He should have been scandalized by her boldness, but it only made him harder. Damn it all.

  As much as he wanted to continue what he’d begun, he knew he could not. It wouldn’t be fair or right. Not for Lady Stokey and certainly not for himself. He was here to acquire a wife. Not a mistress. Even if that mistress was as ravishing and deadly to his sensibilities as the woman before him. He removed his knee from her bed and straightened, knowing he ought to keep his distance from her or else he’d be drawn back into her charms.

  “Once again, I apologize. I shall ring for your maid to see to your ankle.”

  He bowed and turned on his heel, not waiting for her response. The need to flee was just as strong as the need to stay and finish what he’d begun. And Heath knew he must never embark on a seduction with a woman like Lady Stokey. It would only lead to ruin. He’d closed the door to passion a long time ago, and he had no intentions of reopening it now.

  Chapter Two

  “The Duke of Devonshire?”

  Tia looked at her incredulous sister Cleo, the Marchioness of Thornton, and wondered if she looked as guilty as she felt. Guilty as sin. “What of him?”

  “You always called him dull,” Cleo reminded her, helpful soul that she was.

  Yes, and devil take it, she didn’t find him dull any longer. Not one bit. His tongue had been in her mouth. And that had rather changed everything. She blinked, realizing that her sister was awaiting a response. “I never said anything of the sort,” she denied.

  “You most certainly did. The Duke of Dullness, you called him.” Cleo’s blue eyes narrowed. “But it scarcely matters. What does matter is that you cannot be inviting scandal upon yourself now. You’ve Miss Whitney to consider.”

  Ah, yes. The little American who had been the cause of all her troubles today. With the aid of the duke, Cleo had finally found Tia’s wayward charge in the kitchens and had immediately dispatched her back to her room. “I do hope you’ve posted a guard at the girl’s door. I can’t have her running about like a common dairy wench all day long.” She paused as the implications of her sister’s admonishment sank in. “Scandal? How can I possibly be doing anything scandalous? I merely twisted my ankle, and that jackanapes of a duke took it in his head to carry me off.”

  “And undo your bodice,” Cleo hissed. “You’re quite fortunate I happened upon you before your maid.”

  Oh yes. There was that. Heat rushed to Tia’s cheeks as she recalled the duke’s fingers on her buttons, his hot, wet mouth upon her throat. Who knew that a man as seemingly staid as Devonshire was a man of such overwhelming passions?

  “I was having difficulty breathing,” she lied. “Bannock laced me too tightly this morning.”

  “You seemed to be breathing perfectly fine when I saw you downstairs,” her sister observed.

  Sisters could be such a bother sometimes. Bannock had been sent away to fetch a poultice for Tia’s smarting ankle, leaving Tia at Cleo’s mercy. She frowned. “Precisely what are you suggesting, my dear?”

  “I’m suggesting that when I first happened upon you here in your chamber, you looked as if you’d been thoroughly kissed and half a dozen of your buttons were open. Your chemise was on full display, for heaven’s sake.”

  Well, she had been thoroughly kissed. It rather rankled her to admit it, but the duke was a wickedly skilled kisser. Perhaps even the best she’d ever experienced. With his mouth upon hers and his fingers making short work of her bodice, she’d been ready to throw up her skirts and invite him to her bed. It was alarming, her reaction to him. Horrible, in fact. She had already decided to settle him with Miss Whitney. She couldn’t very well take him for herself. No matter how delicious a prospect having him in her bed would be. She couldn’t deny it now, not after what had happened between them. It was as if she’d been cast into flames. Her heart still thumped madly just to think of him.

  “Tia?” Cleo brought Tia out of her musings. Her sister glared at her. “Truly, I’m beginning to think you injured your brain and not your ankle.”

  “That makes two of us,” Tia grumbled.

  “What can you have been thinking?”

  “I wasn’t thinking, obviously.” Tia tested her ankle, hoping she could simply do away with the need for a poultice and for listening to her sister’s dressing down both. “He kissed me first, if you must know. I didn’t mean for anything untoward to occur. But I admit that I was rather swept away. It’s the blasted beard, I tell you. It makes him look so deliciously wicked.”

  Cleo pressed her fingers to her temples, looking much aggrieved. “Tia, darling. You cannot get swept away, as you call it, now that you’ve Miss Whitney in your care. Bella will have both our heads if we bring any hint of scandal the girl’s way.”

  Bella was the stepmother to Miss Whitney, sister-in-law to Cleo, and dear friend to Tia. Heavy with child, Bella was not currently able to squire about her stepdaughter. Tia had been happy to step in and help her friend, in no small part because doing so involved procuring an entire wardrobe for the girl. There were few things Tia loved as much as commissioning new gowns.

  She raised a brow at her sermonizing sister now. “I must confess it’s rich to hear you preaching about propriety and avoiding scandal. You created one of the biggest scandals of our century.”

  Cleo wrinkled her nose. “Certainly not the century, and we’ve done away with all that now. Thornton and I are quite respectable and boring.”

  “Respectable and boring,” Tia scoffed. “I daresay those two words shall never be spoken in connection with you.”

  Cleo and her husband Thornton, a respected advisor to Gladstone, had embarked on a wild affair while Cleo had still been married to the Earl of Scarbrough. The resulting scandal had been enough to nearly ruin Thornton, but in the end, Scarbrough’s demise—he’d been drunk and struck down by an omnibus—had enabled Cleo and Thornton to wed. They were deeply in love, and Tia had to admit harboring more than a trifling amount of jealousy at their devoted union. If only her life had not gone so hopelessly awry, perhaps she too would have been happily in love.

  But that hadn’t been meant to be. The love of her life, the Earl of Denbigh, had wed another. And Tia had married the much older, rather cantankerous Baron, who had left her with a handsome widow’s portion when he’d died but little else. He’d certainly never loved her, nor she him.

  “You needn’t be a bear,” Cleo told her, once again interrupting her thoughts. “I’ll leave you here to nurse your ankle for the entirety of the party if you can’t be nice.”

  “I don’t mind limping about,” Tia countered.

  Cleo harrumphed. “Nonsense. My maid shall instruct Bannock on the poultice. She’s got a marvelous head for herbs, and you’ll be right as rain in a trice. I can’t have my sister languishing abed when there’s a party underway, now can I?”

  “I daresay you can’t.” But Tia had to wonder if perhaps it wouldn’t be safer. She didn’t think she could be trusted to be in the duke’s company after what had transpired between them. She hadn’t wanted him to stop. And while she didn’t care for being chastised by her sister, Tia knew Cleo was right. She wouldn’t dare harm Miss Whitney with her own ill-advised actions. The quicker she found a husband for the girl, the better.

  “But heed me well, Tia. You must stay away from the Duke of Devonshire. For your sake and for the sake of Miss Whitney both. I wouldn’t dream of seeing either of you hurt.” Cleo gave her hand a sisterly pat.

  Tia sighed. “You have my word that I shall stay far, far away from the duke. I haven’t the slightest desire to see him again.”

  Liar, accused her inner voice.

  Tia promptly told her inner voice to stubble it.

  Heath knew he should keep his distance from Lady Stokey. And he’d tried. For three whole dreadfully troublesome days. Following her about like
a lovesick swain would only leave him looking the fool, with nothing to show for his efforts save a hard cock. And yet in the drawing room after dinner that evening, he found himself going to her side where she was carefully seated on a gilded settee, her ankle propped on a small stool. Her wily charge Miss Whitney was within eyesight but beyond earshot, and her sister had just beat a hasty retreat to her husband’s side, leaving Lady Stokey alone for the moment.

  He bowed to her, thinking she looked exceptionally lovely in a black-and-gold-striped silk-and-velvet evening gown. “Lady Stokey.”

  Her gaze met his, sending an inadvertent jolt through him. “Duke.”

  He thought of how she’d looked in her chamber, her bodice undone, creamy skin on display, and it nearly undid him. She had been so beautiful, and he’d wanted nothing more than to stay with her, open the rest of her buttons, divest her of every inch of her clothing. Make love to her. Damnation, he never should have approached her, but it was too late now. She was looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to speak.

  “How is your ankle, my lady?” he asked at last.

  “It’s recovering quite nicely, thank you.” She seemed ill at ease, her effortless wit from three days ago nowhere in sight. “Do sit down. You’re hurting my neck, forcing me to gaze up at you.”

  Heath sat next to her on the settee, leaving enough room between them so that her voluminous skirts barely brushed his trousers. The scent of violets teased his nose. The twin diamond stars she wore clipped in her hair twinkled at him. “You’ve received injuries enough of late, I daresay,” he drawled, aware that his conversation was appallingly boring. But he couldn’t seem to think of a single worthwhile thing to utter.

  “It would certainly seem so.” She paused, seeming to consider her next words with care. “I suppose I ought to thank you for your kind assistance the other day.”

  He’d never heard a more grudging attempt at gratitude in his life. “You suppose you ought to? Pray contain your enthusiasm, my lady or else it shall go straight to my head.”

  Her eyes widened. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.”

  “Nor did you mean to truly thank me,” he returned, suspecting that it wasn’t often that anyone dared to oppose her.

  Her lovely mouth worked for a few moments, and he thought he’d left her speechless. Finally, she found her voice. “I meant to apologize just as surely as you meant to unhook my buttons, Your Grace.”

  Heat slid through him at the reminder of what had almost been. He hadn’t expected her to refer to his lapse of judgment, particularly when they were in mixed company. “I suppose I ought to apologize for my imprudence,” he said, intentionally repeating her phrasing.

  She cast him a sidelong glance. “Do you regret it?”

  A surge of lust crashed over him as surely as waves on a storm-tossed sea. He couldn’t look away from her. “No.”

  Lady Stokey inhaled, her only reaction. But it spoke volumes. “Perhaps you should.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “But we cannot always help what we feel.”

  Her left hand slid from her lap to rest on the cushion of the settee, almost touching his trousers. “And what do you feel, Your Grace?”

  Christ, he didn’t know what he felt. That was the crux of it all. One moment, he’d been engrossed in a volume of poetry on a sunny day, and the next he’d been ensnared. From the instant he’d look up to see her standing before him, whatever it was inside him that had shifted had yet to settle back into place. He feared it wouldn’t.

  The need to touch her again was a fierce ache pulsing within him. But he wasn’t free to be bold with her as he’d done in her chamber, not with so many other revelers lingering about, waiting for the slightest hint of gossip. Instead, he inched closer to her hand, slowly covering it with his. “I could ask you the same,” he said lowly, careful to cast his eyes about the men and women surrounding them. None seemed to be looking their way. He laced his fingers through hers, tightening his hold on her, hiding their entwined hands in the billowing folds of her skirt.

  “You’re being most unfair, Your Grace.”

  “Heath,” he said, wanting to hear his given name from her lovely lips even if he didn’t quite know why.

  “Pardon?”

  She hadn’t removed her touch from his. It pleased him, a reaction that was even more ludicrous than his sitting at her side like a dutiful suitor. Hadn’t he just told himself to keep his distance? Hadn’t he decided to attend Lord and Lady Thornton’s country house party for one purpose, to find a wife? Well, that and the shooting, at any rate. Hadn’t he decided there wasn’t a lady more unsuitable for that position than the woman whose hand he was now holding?

  Yes to all three questions. But none of that slowed him down a bit. “Your Grace sounds so very formal. Call me Heath, if you please,” he told her. He was completely, foolishly dim, he thought. Fit for the madhouse.

  “Heath,” she said softly, considering him with a sidelong glance that drove him wild. “It suits you.”

  He knew then that he had to have her. He could damn well find any wife he wanted. But Lady Stokey stirred feelings in him he’d thought long dead. As a young man, he’d been ruled by his passions. He’d been heedless, careless. He’d been devoted to his paintings and Bess and little else. Admittedly, he’d thought he’d had all the time in the world to marry the woman he loved. He’d gone abroad to study painting. And then Bess had grown ill. He hadn’t made it back to England in time to see her before she’d died. As he’d watched her coffin sinking into the earth, he’d sworn to himself that he would never again allow his passions to rule him. And he hadn’t, restricting himself in the years since Bess’ death to women who slaked his needs but made him feel absolutely nothing.

  Tia was different, and he knew it down to his bones. She was not the sort of woman it would be easy for a man to forget. But what could the harm be in just one time? One night of desire? He could assuage his desires and then resume his search for a wife. Why not?

  “Why are you suddenly so silent?” she asked, dispelling his tumultuous thoughts.

  He ran this thumb over hers, toying with her smooth nail. “I suppose I’m bemused.”

  “By what?”

  He saw the instant her protective sister spied them together and read the determination on her face as she caught up Miss Whitney and headed in their direction. “By the things you do to me,” he murmured.

  “Good heavens,” she said, her voice sounding thick.

  He slid his touch to her wrist, feeling the rapid beat of her heart there. “I want you, my lady.”

  “Oh dear.” She was breathless now. “You mustn’t.”

  He released her hand as Lady Thornton and Miss Whitney sailed their way. “And unless I’m mistaken, you want me too.”

  “I very much fear I do,” she whispered.

  Tia was shaken. The duke’s words echoed in her mind long after she had doused the gas lamps and ventured to bed. She waited in the darkness for sleep to claim her, but such a respite was not forthcoming. Her entire body was aflame. She didn’t recall ever feeling so aroused, her every sense heightened. The ache that had settled low in her belly, migrating to between her thighs, had not stopped. If anything, it had only been spurred on. Mere thoughts of him, of the way he had kissed her earlier, the way he had opened her bodice, the way he had touched her hand, haunted her. Dear God, the way he had told her that he wanted her. Blatant and bold, as if it were a completely appropriate statement to make to a lady in the midst of a drawing room. As if it hadn’t been a statement that would change everything for her.

  I want you, my lady.

  The sweet, deep voice returned to her, making moisture gather between her thighs. Such simple, stark words had never affected her more. No man had ever been so blunt with her. She’d been wooed and charmed. Men were always eager to ply their charms upon her and win her over. But no man had ever taken the chance to hold her hand before a drawing room of people and tell her exactly what he required o
f her.

  Passion. Desire. Him claiming her, much the way he had with their kiss.

  Dear God, she had to admit that she wanted him too. She wanted the Duke of Devonshire, as impossible as it seemed. Cleo had warned her away from him. Tia herself had once thought him staid. Dull. She had Miss Whitney to consider. She couldn’t afford to take a lover. Not now.

  But she wanted him. She wanted him, and at five-and-twenty, she had to wonder why she couldn’t have him. She’d had all the dresses she wanted. All the flirtations. All the lovers. Would it be a sin to take one more without anyone being the wiser?

  Tia’s eyes fluttered open, staring at the painted ceiling above her. The moonlight crept in from behind heavy drapes to cast her chamber in an ethereal glow. She could barely discern the figure of Cupid, his ready bow and arrow.

  And then she heard the unmistakable sound of the door closing on the neighboring bedchamber. She sat up in bed as if she’d just been dealt the blow of the arrow promised her. Miss Whitney had been given the chamber alongside Tia’s, which meant that her troublesome charge was once again about the business of causing mayhem.

  Making a sound of exasperation, she threw back the bedclothes and slid from her bed, mindful of her still-sore ankle. The bright shine of the moon enabled her to locate a candle and light it. Hastily, fearing that Miss Whitney would damage her reputation by wandering the house without a chaperone, Tia threw on a dressing gown before grabbing up the candle and hurrying out into the hall.

  Miss Whitney, naturellement, was nowhere to be seen.

  “Drat that girl,” she muttered to herself, wondering which direction she ought to try first. What had Tia been thinking to undertake the onerous task of chaperoning a girl who was hell-bent on sending her to an early grave with her flighty antics? Very likely, she’d been charmed by the waifish girl’s startling beauty and her rebellious nature, so like Tia’s at that age.