Always a Scoundrel

by Suzanne Enoch

  “He couldn’t have me arrested if I hadn’t done anything wrong.”

  “I am not going.”

  Bram circled the desk to grab her arm. “You are going. Don’t be so bloody stubborn on my account, Rosamund. You’re better rid of both of us.”

  “You are not him, Bram.”

  “Don’t be so sure of that.”

  Grabbing his hair with her free hand, she pulled his face down to hers. “I am,” she whispered unsteadily, and kissed him. “And the only way I’ll leave is if you come with me.”

  With an unsettled-sounding breath he kissed her back. “I can’t run from this, Rosamund.” He kissed her again, warm and intimate and very arousing. “If I do, I’ll never be able to stand still again.”

  “Then we’d best think of something else. Because I find myself becoming very fond of you.” The thought of him sending her off to safety and remaining behind, however much he might believe he deserved whatever befell him, made her physically ill. “Whether we had ten days or four days, Bram, we made an agreement. If you’re staying, I’m staying.”

  “Stubborn chit,” he muttered, but he didn’t seem all that upset by her mutiny. Especially not after he kissed her nearly senseless. Finally he lifted his head, gazing down at her as she sat in the chair. “You need to leave.”

  “Yes, I know I do. My family thinks I’ve gone to chat with my cousin.” She snorted. “As if Maggie or my aunt and uncle would want anything to do with the nearly-betrothed of the Marquis of Cosgrove.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said, running a forefinger along the neckline of her gown. “If you mention marrying Cosgrove again—every time you mention marrying him—I will do this.” Slowly he pushed up her skirts, sliding his hand beneath until he touched her most intimate place.

  Rose gasped. “Stop that.”

  “I’m not finished yet. After that”—and he gently parted her folds with his fingers—“I will do this.” Bram lowered his head, nibbling and licking.

  “Good God,” she bit out, arching her back, digging her fingers into the padded arms of the chair.

  He chuckled, the sound and the feeling reverberating into her. With another mewling, panting gasp, she came apart, writhing and pulsing beneath his mouth and his fingers.

  How could he do that to her so easily? How could one man’s touch push her beyond anything she’d ever known?

  Finally Bram lifted his head, looking up at her through the dishevelment of her skirts. He opened his mouth, but before he could say something typically charming or even cynical, Rose sank onto the floor in front of him. Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, she pushed him onto his back, going down with him.

  “Brute,” he murmured, grinning.

  “I know what I want.” She kissed him, luxuriating in his strong, hard body beneath her, and the arousal she could feel between his thighs.

  “Do you, now?”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?”

  A laugh burst from his chest, his black eyes lighting with surprised amusement. “Only my friends,” he replied.

  “Then I must be a friend.”

  “Oh, that you are, Rosamund. Though I’ve never done this with any of my friends.” Reaching between them, he unfastened his trousers and shoved her skirts back up around her waist again.

  Slowly she sank down on his member, relishing in the tight, hard slide of him inside her. So no woman he’d ever been with had been his friend. She panted, lifting up and down hard and fast as he groaned beneath her. She rather liked hearing that.

  Bram clutched onto her hips, pushing up as he pulled her down on him. She watched his eyes, the pleasure and lust there, as he moved harder and faster and then with a primitive growl found his release deep inside her.

  Rose collapsed against his chest, her heart pounding so hard she thought it must explode. He closed his arms around her, holding her close. For a long moment they lay there, breathing together, their hearts beating to the same rhythm their bodies had just shared.

  “Now I should go,” she finally murmured.

  “One day very soon,” he returned, relenting when she pushed up against his chest, “you and I are going to spend an entire day—no, an entire week—naked together.”

  “A week?” she repeated, shifting up to the chair again and smoothing down her skirts, fascinated by his naked lower half. Magnificent, he was. “We shall both be dead at the end of it.”

  Bram grinned. “And that is the way I very much want to die.”

  The thought of a week together, naked, rather made her want to think of living. Because an hour, a day, a week in his company was something she very much looked forward to. If they both survived.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked as he unlocked the door and pulled it open again.

  “We have four days—three to be certain we can have the announcement removed from the newspaper. I have some ideas, but it would take longer to tell you than to set them into motion.” He flashed her a grin. “You’ll have to trust me, Rosamund.”

  “I do trust you, Bram,” she returned, meaning it.

  He kissed her on the tip of the nose as his butler reappeared. “Thank you. Now go home, and stay away from him no matter the circumstance.” Bram’s expression darkened. “Cosgrove may think he taught me everything I know, but he’s about to find out that he’s mistaken.”

  Chapter 18

  “He approached you in the middle of St. James’s Park?” Sullivan paced to the window of Bromley House’s upstairs sitting room and back again. And people called him a bastard. “You’re not going anywhere else in this damned Town without me.”

  “He actually approached Rose,” Isabel said, sitting on the low couch to one side of the hearth. “I just happened to be there. And please sit down, Sullivan; you’re making my head ache.”

  Immediately he left off pacing and sat beside her. Blowing out his breath, he slid an arm around her shoulders and drew her against his side. “What worries me,” he said slowly, kissing her golden hair, “is that he didn’t bother to pretend the circumstances were other than what we know them to be.”

  “You think Cosgrove wants Bram to react.”

  “That’s my guess. I don’t know what kind of victory it’ll be for the coward if Bram hangs for killing him, though.”

  “Well, he doesn’t intend to be killed, obviously.”

  Sullivan looked at his wife, resting comfortably against him. Isabel brought him a contentment he’d never thought to find in his life. And at the same time a perpetual, heart-pounding excitement. It would take him a lifetime to decipher the way her quicksilver mind worked, and he looked forward to the challenge.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “I’m thinking that you’re correct, and that in order to avoid being killed, Cosgrove will have to move first.” He leaned over and kissed her softly, at the same time placing his palm over her rounding abdomen. “I’m thinking we need to be ready to help Bram because he won’t ask on his own. And I’m thinking I love you to a rather alarming degree.”

  She chuckled against his mouth, kissing him back. “I’m not alarmed at all.”

  Bram sat on Titan and stared up at the broad gray and white house on the corner. Today had been a damned foxhunt. Up and down, this way and that, until he felt so twisted around he could barely stand. At breakfast he would have been willing to sell off every possession he owned to keep Rosamund in London. By luncheon he wanted to see her gone without delay, full knowing that he had every intention of getting himself imprisoned or killed to make certain she stayed safe.

  And then she’d admitted to being fond of him. Fond. Like a fellow was of his horse or his dog. And even that pittance had been enough to turn him around again. If she intended to stay, then he intended to make certain she could do so safely.

  Which ended with him pacing on horseback fifty feet from the front steps of Johns House. He’d been there before, of course; hell, he’d grown up there. Over the p
ast few years, though, his visits had been only in response to a formal summons—his monthly or so browbeating, with a side dish of threats and contempt.

  With two nights safely remaining, he could probably win the funds necessary to pay off Kingston Gore. Unfortunately there was also the possibility, slim though it might be, that he would have an off night and fail to win. Or worse still, lose some of what he’d accumulated. Large figures meant large wagers and large risks, after all.

  And the one thing he couldn’t afford in this instance was to fail. Squaring his shoulders, he kneed Titan and sent the big black up the short, half-circular drive. He would keep his temper, he would mind his tongue, and he would get what he needed. That was the only option.

  The hulking, broad-shouldered butler pulled open the front door as he reached it. “Lord Bramwell,” he said, inclining his head.

  “Spake. Is His Grace in this evening?”

  “I believe he is dressing for dinner. If you would care to wait here, I shall inquire.”

  So he was to wait in the foyer. The duke no doubt thought he might pilfer the candlesticks if left alone in the sitting room. Levonzy clearly didn’t realize that the object of the game had been to aggravate him while having as little to do with him directly as possible.

  “I am not changing my mind,” the duke said from the top of the stairs. “You are cut off.”

  “Yes, I know that,” Bram returned, resolutely keeping the lid on his own temper. “That’s not why I’m here.”

  “What is it, then? August and I are to dine with the cabinet ministers this evening.”

  “I require a private word.” Spake might keep the duke’s secrets, but Bram wasn’t going to entrust Rosamund’s to the butler.

  A muscle in the duke’s cheek twitched. “The music room, then,” he said, and turned on his heel.

  Bram ascended the stairs, following him. It interested him that Levonzy would choose the music room; it had been the duchess’s favorite room in the house, and it was the only place Bram could conjure images of her. Victoria Johns, the one ray of sunlight in Johns House. He didn’t have to wonder whether his life would have turned out differently if she’d lived past his tenth birthday; he knew it would have.

  They’d never conferred in this particular room before. Was it deliberate, then? Was the duke gambling that Bram would behave himself in there? Bram kept his gaze on his father. He did mean to behave, regardless of the setting, but if the duke felt he needed the memory of his wife to hand, well, perhaps Bram’s activities had had more of an effect on the old man than he’d realized. And at this particular moment, that was not a good thing.

  The duke moved to the far window as Bram stepped into the cheery yellow room. Deliberately he turned and closed the door behind him. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  Levonzy pulled out his pocket watch. “You have three minutes.”

  “Then I’ll get right to it. You know of the agreement between Cosgrove and Abernathy. Why didn’t Abernathy ask you for the ten thousand pounds he needed?”

  “Because he would still have to repay it. An exchange made far more sense fiscally.”

  “But you would have lent him the money if he’d asked for it.”

  “Why should I have? The daughter would have continued to cost money for her upkeep, and in the event she married later, he would have had to provide a dowry. A fairly substantial one, no doubt, given her age and ordinary appearance.”

  While Bram’s first instinct was to demand an apology because Rosamund was the least ordinary woman he’d ever met, something in the duke’s argument caught his attention. And it chilled him to the bone. “Abernathy did ask you for a loan,” he said, his voice clenching despite his best efforts. “You talked him out of it.”

  The duke shrugged. “As I said, it made more sense financially to trade the daughter and erase the debt.”

  “You believe Cosgrove will make her a good husband then, do you?”

  “What I think of Cosgrove I will not say in this room.”

  “Then why would you condemn a good-hearted, innocent lady to a life with him?”

  “Clearly he wanted her enough to pay well for her. What better purpose would she ever have served?”

  This was going to be even stickier than Bram had expected. He walked over to the harp and ran his fingers lightly along the strings. Even the discord of sound they produced was pretty. “What would I have to do to warrant a loan of ten thousand pounds from you?”

  Levonzy snorted. “Be someone else.”

  Bram faced him. “Who would you wish me to be?”

  “Ha. It’s too late for that. You’ve shown me nothing but contempt and disrespect for better than ten years. Is she one of your mistresses? Is that why you want to purchase her back? Good God, she’s not worth that much! I’m certain your good friend the marquis would share her with you for a much more reasonable price than that.”

  “Eight thousand pounds, then.”

  “No.”

  “Six thousand. And you’ll have it back, with interest.”

  “You’ve probably stolen more than that amount from my friends. Use it to pay for her.”

  “I haven’t kept what I took. I gave it to a damned church.”

  “Then why—ah.” The duke sank onto the deep windowsill. “You went to a great deal of trouble to annoy me, then. Congratulations on your success. Don’t expect me to give or loan you anything after what you’ve done.”

  “It’s not for m—”

  The door burst open. “Thank God,” August panted, stepping into the room and shutting them in again. “No weapons drawn.”

  Bram scowled. All he needed was for the golden child to make him look even more tarnished in comparison. “This does not concern you, August. I already went to you, and you sent me here. Get out.”

  “He’s my heir,” Levonzy retorted before August could reply, “and he’s welcome inside my house. You are not. Your three minutes have expired. Good evening, Bramwell.”

  “Has he asked you for the money, then?” the Marquis of Haithe asked, leaning back against the door and creating a better barrier than a stack of chairs.

  “Yes, he has, if you can believe his gall. As if I would cut him off and then bestow money on him.”

  “For the last damned time, it’s not for me, blast it all!” Bram growled, the lid exploding off his temper.

  “No? You don’t mean to see that your dear friend can claim ten thousand pounds from an admired member of the ton? I’m certain you and he will laugh about it to our faces.”

  Bram blinked. Was that how the duke saw this mess? As a way for Cosgrove—and for him—to gain a laugh at the literal expense of the good ton? “My only thought is to remove Lady Rosamund’s obligation to Cosgrove. And you won’t be losing any funds. I will repay you. Not the sort of thing I generally laugh about.”

  “Do you think I’ve become senile?”

  “I believe Bram to be telling the truth, Father,” August put in unexpectedly.

  A heartbeat of silence echoed in the room. Both Bram and his father stared at Haithe. Bram clenched his jaw before it could fall open. It looked as though Levonzy was having the same trouble.

  “Are you taking his side?” the duke finally snapped.

  “I’m saying that I think his motives are pure.”

  “All talk. It’s all talk. Give me one shred of proof that this isn’t a bloody conspiracy, another attempt to make me look foolish and to make me part with ten thousand pounds I’ll never see again.”

  At least Levonzy wasn’t still slamming the door on his face—which was no more than he deserved. Taking a breath and sending up a quick prayer that God would take pity on Rosamund if not on him, Bram pulled the signet ring from his finger and placed it on top of the pianoforte.

  “I’ve broken with Cosgrove,” he said quietly. Perhaps a murmur would have a greater effect than shouting. “Permanently. I stole that, in case you’re wondering how I’ve come to have it back. And I’m returning it to
you. I know you regret ever giving it to me.”

  “Yes, I do.” Stalking forward, Levonzy snatched up the ring and retreated to the window again. He examined it, as if checking to see whether it had been tainted.

  “That was my last burglary, as well.”

  “Oh, and why is that?”

  He hesitated. Saying it aloud, especially when Rosamund hadn’t returned the sentiment, seemed foolish. And if she never did…“I’ve assessed my life. Reassessed it, I suppose. I didn’t like where it was going.”

  “And you do now?” Levonzy retorted, sarcasm flowing from him in waves.

  “Yes. I love someone. I’m in love with her.” There. Love was naturally foolish, he supposed.

  “Whose wife is she?”

  “No one’s, yet. In four days she’ll be officially betrothed to Kingston Gore.”

  “God’s sake, Bram,” his brother murmured. “It’s about damned time.”

  “You may believe this load of turnips he’s selling,” Levonzy broke in, “but I’m having none of it. And I won’t be pulled into some scheme so you can further embarrass me.”

  That was it, then, Bram realized. He’d been a black-hearted scoundrel for too long to remove the costume. It had melted into his skin. “If you’ll excuse me, then, I’m off to the tables. I have another four thousand—no, eight to be safe—quid to win before Friday.” That was the limit. Beyond that, and Cosgrove or Abernathy wouldn’t have time to withdraw the betrothal announcement from the Times.

  “Eight thousand?” August echoed. “I’ll lend it to you.”

  Bram froze in mid-step, his heart thudding again with that odd hopefulness he felt in Rosamund’s presence. “You said I had to go to Levonzy for any funds.”

  “Which you’ve done. I find your reasons to be sound. Come see me in the morning.”

  Torn between the sudden desire to hug his bear of a brother and wanting to flee before Haithe could change his mind, Bram settled for nodding. “Thank you, August. Truly.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  And thank God or Lucifer or St. Joan or anyone else who might have had a hand in it. He could save her. His Rosamund. He had a chance to save himself. Speaking of that, though, he needed to make one more confession. “You should know that Cosgrove believes me to be the Black Cat.”