Heart’s Temptation Books 1–3

by Scott, Scarlett

  And if Tia had been determined to disappear when she’d been a precocious sixteen-year-old, where would she have gone? The library seemed the obvious answer. Tia had never been the voracious reader her sisters were—indeed, she rather found the act of burying one’s nose in a book to be deadly dull—but as a young lady, hiding in libraries had been an excellent way to avoid her mama’s hawk-like gaze.

  In fine dudgeon by the time she limped her way to the library and caught sight of the illuminated cracks around the closed door, Tia stalked inside with as much circumstance as she could muster given the state of her ankle. Her irritation melted, however, at the sight of a wilted-looking Miss Whitney, whose shoulders were hunched in defeat as she browsed a shelf. She spun about, eyes wide, knowing she’d been caught.

  “Miss Whitney, would you care to explain what you’re doing in the library when you ought to be sleeping safely in your chamber where I left you?” she demanded, though not with as much force as she would have liked. Soft-hearted she may be, but she’d prefer for the girl not to know it.

  The sheen of tears marred Miss Whitney’ cheeks. She blinked and swiped at them with the back of her hand. “I couldn’t sleep, Lady Stokey,” Miss Whitney said, her Virginia drawl laced with a defiance that belied her sadness.

  She suspected that Miss Whitney was suffering from homesickness and grief combined. The girl’s mother had passed away just before her father had brought her to England. But none of that meant she could allow Miss Whitney to continue flouting the rules of polite society. “My dear, I must insist that you either remain in your chamber or seek me out in such a circumstance. While we’re in mixed company at a house party, it simply won’t do for you to be wandering about. Your reputation depends upon it.”

  She knew Miss Whitney had come from a genteel upbringing in Virginia, that she’d been raised in a manner befitting a proper young lady. When her father had brought her to England, her comportment had been a trifle rusty, but her stepmother, Lady Bella, had made short work of that minor flaw. The girl’s failure to comply with propriety was not from ignorance but rather willfulness.

  “What if I don’t care for my reputation?” Miss Whitney asked.

  “You must,” Tia advised, feeling very much like her mother in that moment. Feeling too that perhaps she’d do well to heed her own counsel. “Your virtue is of the utmost importance. Ruin it, and you’ll ruin your chance at making a good match.”

  “Was yours a good match, my lady?” her charge startled her by querying.

  No one had ever been so forthright with her before. Indeed, from anyone else, it would have been considered dreadfully ill-mannered. This plucky American was an odd little creature. Tia folded her hands together at her waist, as if in prayer. “I’m sure it was, my dear.”

  “I reckon that means it wasn’t,” drawled the cheeky thing.

  Tia thought of her marriage to Lord Stokey, a man she had not particularly cared for, and a man who had not particularly cared for her either. It had been a lonely existence. Widowhood, though equally solitary, suited her far better than being a wife ever had. “It was a good match in terms of title and wealth,” she elaborated. “That is all that must be considered.”

  “What of love?”

  Ah, matters of the heart. Tia had been in love once. She hadn’t seen the Earl of Denbigh in years. She’d taken great care to avoid him. She’d been young and naïve then, easily given to romantic notions she now knew didn’t exist for most. “You’d do well to avoid it at all costs, Miss Whitney. Avoid it as you should avoid sneaking from your chamber without a chaperone.” A chill crept through her then, reminding her that they were both far from their warm beds. “Come now, we need to return to our chambers before we wake someone.”

  “I’m not certain I can sleep,” her charge revealed, an embarrassed thread of honesty in her voice.

  At last, some truth. Tia thought it promising. Perhaps if she could crack the shell the girl had built around herself, her inclination toward mischief would also abate. Miss Whitney was a slight, depressing figure, so Tia closed the distance between them, putting an arm around the girl’s thin shoulders. “When next you can’t sleep, come find me, my dear. I have three sisters, you know, and when we were growing up, I was forever having one of them at my door.”

  “Truly?”

  Tia guided Miss Whitney from the library. “Truly. Sad lot of wretches they were. I’ve always been brave enough to chase the ghosts away.”

  “You’ve never seen my ghosts, my lady,” Miss Whitney said.

  “Perhaps not, but I can assure you I’m brave enough to make anyone’s ghosts flee in terror,” she promised the girl. After all, if there was one thing she could claim besides her looks and her frivolous lifestyle, it was her bravado. It was also the very thing that, more often than not, landed her in trouble.

  Heath had admittedly imbibed too much of Thornton’s deceptively delicious whiskey. That was the reason he was walking, not to his chamber where he belonged for the evening, but in the direction of Lady Stokey’s chamber instead.

  Tia. The mere thought of her, her golden curls, tempting breasts and sweet violet scent, was enough to stiffen his cock. After all his years of staid living and doing penance for allowing his passionate nature to rule his head, it was too damn ironic that one woman could so easily undo him. She made him weak. Made him want what he ought not want. Made him hot with desire, eager to fall back into passion’s fiery grip.

  Most definitely, he should be turning about at once and venturing back to the safe confines of his chamber. He could put his hand to work just as well and it would lead to a far more sensible outcome than tangling with Tia ever could. But it wouldn’t be even close to the same, and he knew it. Knowledge was a horrible thing at times, for he also knew which door belonged to her. And his feet were intent upon carrying him to it.

  He reached the hall where Tia’s chamber was a mere few feet away. The creaking of a door stilled him. He snuffed the candle he’d been carrying just as an undeniably feminine form sailed into the hall, illuminated by the candle in her hand. The gas lamps had long since been turned out for the night, leaving the inhabitants of Penworth no better than their predecessors centuries before. Divested of its technologies, humanity was all the same, regardless of time.

  Heath held his breath as the flickering glow bathed the woman’s face. She limped in his direction, oblivious to his presence. The moment recognition slid through him, an arrow of unadulterated lust shot straight through him. He swore he caught the faint scent of violets. Her hair was unbound, the golden curls she ordinarily wore elaborately styled hanging freely almost to her waist. He swallowed, wondering what it would be like to have her riding him, her hair a gilded curtain around him.

  “Jesus,” he muttered to himself, thinking he must be beyond inebriated to be standing in the darkness, watching Lady Stokey as if he were a common thief waiting for the household to go to bed so he could pilfer the silver.

  She stilled, apparently having heard his self-chastising. Hell. He’d supposed himself too far away for her to eavesdrop. She held the candle higher, peering in his direction. “Who’s there?”

  Her taper cast a half-moon before him. It stopped just short of revealing him. He debated the wisdom of stepping forward, entering the light. If he had a modicum of sense, he’d spin on his heel and disappear into the darkness from whence he’d come. He would leave her alone. Purge her from his mind. Settle on a nice biddable young lady for his wife. Forget the desire casting a heady spell over him. Never again think about the luscious body hiding beneath her dressing gown. Or peeling the dressing gown from her while he kissed her senseless.

  Devil take it.

  He took several steps forward, stopping only when he was a mere foot from her. Her eyes were wide, meeting his and sending a new jolt of awareness straight through him. “Heath?”

  Hearing his name on her lips was his undoing. If she’d called him “Your Grace” or even “Devonshire”, he’d hav
e been able to resist her. At least, that’s what he told himself as he closed the final distance between them, his hands going to her waist as if they belonged there. And perhaps they did. Tonight, if not every other.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, sounding breathless.

  “That should be obvious,” he whispered, his gaze lowering to her seductive mouth.

  “You’re mad,” she returned, but she licked her lips, giving herself away.

  He knew she felt the same reckless need burning between them. He knew she was equally as powerless to resist. “Perhaps I am,” he agreed, his hands sliding to her bottom, round and firm. Thank God she wasn’t wearing a bustle. He filled his palms with her soft flesh and gave her a gentle squeeze. She gasped. “But somehow, I rather think you don’t mind.”

  “We cannot do this,” Tia hissed. But her body gave her away. She arched her back, driving her softness against his erect cock.

  He leaned down, wanting to kiss her. He felt more intoxicated in her presence than he’d been on the whiskey he’d drunk. “Why not?”

  “My ward is in the chamber next door,” she said, surprising him with her response.

  He’d expected her to say that they shouldn’t dally with each other. That a quick tumble at a country house party was beneath her. But he hadn’t expected Miss Whitney to be her sole objection. He would have cursed the girl if she hadn’t been the reason for bringing Tia into his arms in the first place.

  “Come with me to my chamber,” he suggested, amazing even himself with the bold proposal. “I haven’t any inconvenient wards as neighbors. Merely old Lord Tuttleworth, and he’s quite deaf.”

  She smiled, and he knew she wouldn’t require much convincing. She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder, as if she suspected someone to suddenly appear and demand to know what they were about. When she turned back to him, she caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I’m afraid only one sort of thing could happen were I to follow you to your chamber, sir.”

  “Precisely.” He couldn’t resist the temptation another instant. He lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her as he’d done in her chamber. She responded instantly, opening to him, her tongue sliding against his. He broke off the kiss with great reluctance, knowing that if he didn’t stop he’d soon be ready to rip off her dressing gown and have her right there in the hall where anyone could happen upon them. “I believe we’ve already had this discussion, my lady.”

  “So we have, Your Grace.” She paused, her big eyes searching his. “I’m not certain it’s wise.”

  “What has wisdom to do with it?” He ran a finger over her smooth cheek. “If it’s wisdom you’re looking for, you aren’t going to find it lingering here in a darkened hallway with me.”

  That she was lingering at all told them both that she was tottering on the edge the same as he was. One small push, and they’d both fall headlong into the passion that threatened to consume them both.

  “I’m not looking for a lover,” she told him, as if it mattered.

  Perhaps it did to her, but he didn’t give a damn. “Nor am I.” No need to mention he was looking for a wife. At the moment, all he was looking for was a blonde siren with curls to her waist and the sweetest lips he’d ever tasted.

  She swallowed. “What if someone should hear?”

  He grinned, sensing the scales had been tipped firmly in his favor. “Tuttleworth snores like a bear.”

  “Very well.” Her lashes lowered before she gave him a penetrating, direct stare that aroused him every bit as much as her proximity had. She was a woman to be reckoned with, his Tia. “I’m sure I shall regret this in the morning, but I’m in the mood to be wicked tonight.”

  It was all he needed to hear. He grabbed her hand in his before she could change her mind. “Let’s be wicked together.”

  Tia didn’t know what worm had decided to infiltrate her brain. But it was most assuredly a devious one, the sort that caused her to fling all sense of propriety out the nearest window. For it was half past one in the morning and despite all logic, all common sense, all warnings from her sister, Tia was holding the Duke of Devonshire’s hand, slipping through the shadowy hallways at his side as fast as her ankle would allow.

  On her way to his bedchamber.

  The very notion should have sent her running in the opposite direction. Instead, it made her heart race and sent moisture between her thighs. A delicious ache of anticipation bloomed within her. She’d never done something so foolish. At any moment, they could be caught. Her reputation would be in shreds.

  Somehow, the danger of being caught only heightened her desire for him.

  She couldn’t help herself. Something had happened the moment their eyes had met in the gardens. It all seemed fated that this wild, carefree moment should be unfolding. Nothing in her life had ever felt more dangerous. But nothing in her life had ever felt more right either.

  As she followed the duke into the west wing of Penworth, a door suddenly creaked open. He reacted faster than she, dousing her candle and swinging her into a nearby alcove. He shielded her with his body, holding her in his strong arms. A woman’s throaty giggle mingled with a man’s low, rumbling voice not far from them. Tia’s heart hammered against her breast at the possibility of being seen. She held her breath.

  The duke’s hands were on her waist, anchoring her to him, heating her even through the layers of her dressing gown and nightdress. She felt as if she were a young girl, hiding from her parents and chaperones. It was ridiculous to be wrapped up in the Duke of Devonshire’s arms, sneaking about in the darkness, risking everything for the possibility of passion.

  He kissed her again then, and she realized that it was also wonderful. His lips angled over hers, firm and demanding. Claiming. Taking. Her hands went around his neck, her fingers sinking into his hair. The scrape of his well-trimmed beard on her sensitive skin was incredibly erotic. His tongue sank inside her mouth, making her ache with want.

  One night indulging her desire, that was all she yearned for. Give her tonight, and by morning she would be perfectly ready to behave. Well, to mostly behave, anyway. It wasn’t as if she could turn into her prudish grandmamma overnight, after all.

  His palm slid up, over her waist to her left breast, cupping her. Her nipple hardened instantly, her body’s response reminding her that the likelihood of her ever becoming prudish was frightfully minimal indeed. She moaned against the duke’s lips, shifting so that her leg hooked round his hip, her nightgown and dressing robe the only barrier between the hard ridge of him and her willing flesh.

  Dear, sweet heavens.

  If she wasn’t careful, she’d allow him to take her right here in this darkened alcove. The thought brought at least a modicum of sanity to cool her ardor. She broke their kiss with great reluctance, tipping her head back to allow the drafty air of the corridor to bathe her heated cheeks as she caught her breath.

  He dragged his mouth down over her throat, nipping and licking at her skin as he went. His fingers found her nipple beneath the layers of fabric separating her from him, rolling and pinching. Pleasure swirled through her, sharp, swift, and sweet. She didn’t recall ever wanting another man as she wanted Devonshire.

  Heath. For he would forever be Heath to her now. He would never again be simply the duke. They had crossed boundaries, trespassed in ways that could not be undone. And before the night was over, they would venture across even more lines. They would become lovers.

  The reminder brought a jolt of reality back to her. She had followed him this far. But her conscience reminded her that she couldn’t afford to act with such a blatant disregard for societal rules. She had Miss Whitney to consider, and her ward had shown her a weak side tonight that had melted Tia’s cold heart.

  “We could be seen,” she whispered, trying to cling to her rapidly dwindling ability to tell him no.

  “Damn it,” he muttered, pulling his lips from her neck. “You make me lose my head.”

  She could easily say the same
, but she kept silent, releasing him and stepping back as far as the alcove would allow. She listened for the sound of the lovers who had interrupted their impromptu race to Heath’s chamber. It seemed they had found their way to wherever they’d be spending the night.

  His fingers entwined with hers. “How fares your ankle?”

  His concern touched her. She thought inexplicably of the Cupid fresco on the ceiling in her chamber. Perhaps the arrow had found its mark after all. Tia forced herself to speak. “It pains me a bit, but it shall do.”

  “I’ll carry you,” he said in august, ducal tones that brooked no argument.

  “Nonsense,” she said anyway, not cowed a bit. He’d already played the role of savior with her.

  “Stubborn woman,” he murmured, scooping her up into his arms before she could offer further protestation.

  “Stubborn man,” she countered.

  “Hush,” he ordered before taking her from the alcove.

  Tia clung to him, rather enjoying the way he so effortlessly carted her about. His strength was infinitely arousing. Being near enough to breathe in his scent and sink her fingers into his silky, golden hair wasn’t precisely a chore either. She kept silent as he stalked down the darkened length of the hall. Her candle was long forgotten. She supposed she’d dropped it back in the alcove, but it hardly mattered now, for the man carrying her off had apparently reached his chamber door.

  He opened it, crossed the threshold and kicked it closed at their backs. The lamps had been left lit, presumably by his manservant. Heath lowered her to her feet. They were well and truly alone, no chance of being seen or overheard now.

  His maddening words returned to her in that moment, and she wasn’t sure if it was a warning or a herald. Let’s be wicked together. Tonight, it would seem she was prepared to be wicked indeed.

  Chapter Three

  Heath stared down at Tia. Dear God, she was beautiful, gazing up at him with her emerald-colored eyes, her long hair framing her face, her lips swollen from his kisses. He could scarcely believe the goddess before him was in his chamber. That she had accepted his mad, half-drunk proposition. But the alluring scent of violets reminded him he wasn’t dreaming.