Confessions of a Scoundrel

by Karen Hawkins

  “You should never drink.” His voice dripped amusement. “I can’t believe you only had three glasses of port. My mother could drink more than that.”

  “Your mother was an alcoholic?” She opened her eyes and squinted in the semi-darkness. “I suppose that’s only to be expected. If I had six children, I’d be fond of the bottle, too.”

  “She was not an alcoholic.” He chuckled. “But you’re right. Six children would be a good reason to become one. She had her hands full.” He eyed her for a moment. “Verena. That’s a very unusual name. Where did it come from?”

  Verena should have objected to his use of her Christian name, but she rather liked the way it rolled off his tongue. It sounded almost French the way he said it. And everyone knew that French was the language of love.

  “Well,” he said, moving impatiently, his knees seeming to press further into her side of the carriage, invading her space, bringing even more disquiet. “Are you going to tell me about your name or am I to guess?”

  “Guess.”

  His mouth curved in a smile. She really, really liked his mouth. She thought perhaps it was her favorite part, except for his thighs, of course.

  “Let’s see…Verena.” The light from the street caressed a path down his jaw to his chin. “It was your grandmother’s name and when she died, she left you a fortune.”

  That was a lovely story. Verena immediately dreamed up a kindly old grandmother worth more than the crown prince. “That would certainly be fortunate for me, but it’s wrong. It’s the name of a small town. My parents believe I was conceived there, on the banks of the river.”

  “How risqué. My parents were just as bad. I remember once finding them entwined in the pantry.” He shifted in his seat, scooting down a bit. His legs were suddenly no longer pressing against her knees, but stretched to either side, cocooning her in warmth.

  Verena wanted to move away, but there was nowhere to go. She was imprisoned between a pair of long, muscular legs. How…delightful.

  The carriage rounded a corner, and somehow, Brandon used the motion to shift yet again and now his knee was almost against her seat, his thigh pressed firmly to hers. Verena sucked in her breath, a shiver traveling across her shoulders, down her chest. It tightened her nipples and sent a tremor of hot lust through her. Blast it, had she known that port was such an insidious drink, she’d never have touched a drop.

  “Tell me about your husband. He was a sporting man, was he not?”

  She blinked, trying to reel in her muddled senses. “Andrew? He liked all sports, especially those he could wager on.” She scooted a little to one side, away from Brandon’s dangerous legs. For they were dangerous—they made her think all sorts of improper thoughts. Like what he’d look like naked. She glanced at him from beneath her lashes. His clothes fit to perfection and she could tell that he was made with a sculptor’s hand.

  God was to be commended on producing such a fine specimen. In fact, just to honor the realization, Verena decided to say an extra ten Hail Marys that very night.

  Feeling very pious, she smoothed her skirts over her knees, relishing the feel of the silk. She felt amazingly alive, aware of every little nuance, of the flickering light, of her gown beneath her fingertips, of the sounds of the horses as they clopped through the streets. The night was wonderfully magical.

  “Did your husband want children?”

  She frowned at Brandon and wished the light were more definite. She could barely make out his face, though his eyes seemed to burn through her. “No, he didn’t. Not yet anyway.”

  Brandon thought he could see the faintest hint of sadness in her eyes. He shifted again, bringing his leg more fully in contact with hers. She looked down, but made no move to retreat.

  It was a pity he had such a large carriage. He made a mental note to order a smaller one on the morrow. “I understand Westforth died in a carriage accident shortly after your marriage. Did the horses bolt?”

  “No, Andrew did.” She managed a small smile. “He was racing and he took a corner too sharp. He broke his neck.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It was swift and painless. And he died the same way he’d lived—free. As sad as I was, I think I knew even back then that it was meant to be.”

  There was a catch in her voice that made Brandon frown. “You still miss him.”

  She looked out the window, the dark leather that lined the walls of the carriage a perfect background for her beauty.

  Beauty. It was strange, but he now thought her every bit as beautiful as Devon had described. It was more than her face or body, though those features were noteworthy in their own right. It was something more. Her spirit perhaps.

  Brandon sighed impatiently. He was being ridiculous. He should be asking about Humford instead of feeding this strange curiosity he had about her—who she was and where she’d come from and all manner of things.

  She chuckled suddenly, leaning back against the squabs, her teeth flashing as she smiled. “Do you know what I don’t miss about being married?”

  “What?”

  “His snoring.”

  Brand grinned, wondering what she’d do if he grabbed her to him and kissed her. She needed to be kissed, he could tell. And if he was honest, he yearned to wrap his arms about her and taste her yet again, to see if his memory of their one embrace was anything near the truth, or a sad exaggeration resulting from his overactive imagination.

  She pulled back, nose in the air. “You’re laughing at me.”

  He captured her hand. “I did not laugh.”

  “No, but you smiled and that’s close enough. How much farther is it? I want to go home.”

  “That’s where we’re going.”

  “It is certainly taking long enough.” She eyed him suspiciously, though she made no move to free her hand from his. “Are you certain you’re taking me to my house and not yours?”

  “I don’t have a house. I rent lodgings off St. James’s Street.”

  “What? A St. John without a house? I thought there was a law against that. Something about ‘all pompous asses shall possess their own abodes.’”

  He grinned. “You know, I believe my mother would have liked you.”

  “I doubt it. I rarely get on well with other females. I don’t know why that is.”

  He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, marveling at the smoothness of her skin. “Perhaps it is because you’re too forthright.”

  “Forthright? You mean ‘honest’?”

  Brandon didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure what he meant. All he knew was that the woman who sat so tantalizingly near wasn’t sitting anywhere close enough. He wanted her beside him. On him. Under him. A growing heat filtered through him.

  She sighed. “You aren’t going to answer and I know why. You don’t think I’m honest or honorable or you’d have never offered to pay me to leave your brother alone. In fact, you think I’m a horrible person.”

  “I do not,” he said slowly. “I am beginning to realize that I was wrong about some things, but I had good reason to think them true.”

  “‘Think’ and ‘some.’ What a delightful way to make a decision.”

  “I admit I was somewhat hasty in my judgment.”

  “‘Somewhat hasty,’” she scoffed. “There’s nothing like a partial retraction of a gross error. It’s rather like being almost with child.”

  Brandon opened her hand, admiring the shape of her fingers where they were splayed across his. Long and delicate, her hands were the hands of a musician, of an artist, of a skilled lover, perhaps. The thought tantalized and Brandon lifted her hand to his mouth.

  He gently ran his lips over the length of her fingers, stopping to taste the crest of each knuckle. A slow, shivery heat built, tormenting and teasing.

  She watched, wide eyed, her mouth parted. “You—you shouldn’t do that.”

  He kissed her first finger. “Why not?”

  “B-because it—” She swallowed.

&nbs
p; He ran his lips the length of her second finger. She shivered then, closing her eyes, an expression of yearning on her face.

  She was so transparent, her every emotion flickering across her face. Brandon could not look away. He pressed a kiss to the sensitive place where her third finger joined her palm, his tongue flicking out to tease the delicate fold.

  She jerked forward, her knees pressed together, her breathing erratic. The gesture was so primal, so pure. Brandon’s control stretched to the breaking point. He pressed her fingers to his lips and closed his eyes. He dared not claim the promised kiss—he would not have the strength to stop the embrace from becoming something more.

  “St. John…” Verena swallowed, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. Her entire body was aflame. She wanted him—now. “I will give you the kiss I owe you.”

  His eyes narrowed, an almost slumberous seductiveness to his voice. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

  She barely kept her smile, the pressure within her was so great. “No, I haven’t. But I’m going to wish I had if you do not kiss me.”

  His lips quirked, his eyes gleaming hotly. “If you were to come over here…to my side of the carriage…”

  Her breasts ached for his touch. “Yes?” she whispered breathlessly.

  “And if you were to settle yourself in my lap and wrap your arms about my neck…”

  “Yes?” Any moment now she would burst into flames and melt into a puddle of thwarted desire. “What would you give me?”

  “I would give you an extra kiss, one you would never forget.” His voice threaded through the night, luring her forward. “I’m saving the kiss I owe you for a time of my choosing.”

  It was wanton. Verena knew it. Yet she found herself sliding forward, to the edge of her seat. His legs were to either side of hers and it was remarkably easy to lift herself into his lap.

  He engulfed her, pulling her to his chest, his mouth descending on hers. It was as it had been before—more than a kiss, it was a devouring, a branding. His mouth covered hers, his hands molded her back through her dress. She moaned beneath the onslaught, opening to him, wrapping her arms about his neck.

  Waves of desire burst through her, shattering her thoughts. All she knew was what she felt—his tongue thrusting into her mouth, making her writhe against him, his hands warm and demanding, cupping her breasts. Her nipples hardened and she arched into his touch, her entire body melting against him.

  The carriage rumbled to a halt and with it, Verena’s senses returned. She pushed herself from him, forced her weak knees to move her back to her seat. Once there, all she could do was lay against the squabs and fight for her breath.

  They sat for a moment in the stillness, looking at one another, both breathing as harshly as if they’d been running. It was an agony. Verena yearned to be back in his embrace, to feel his hands on her once more, to taste him deeply.

  She pressed a hand to her forehead. “I—I didn’t mean for us to—”

  “I know. Verena, I—”

  The door opened and the footman pulled down the steps.

  Brand sighed, raking a hand through his hair. He met her gaze with a wry smile. “Come. I promised to see you home and so I shall.” He stepped out, then turned and held out his hand.

  She nodded mutely and allowed him to assist her from the carriage. Light from the portico shone around them in a golden pool. Brandon tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and walked her up the steps to the door. Verena put her hand to the knob, then stopped.

  “What is it?”

  She frowned at the knob and tried to turn it again. “It’s locked.”

  “Do you have a key?”

  “Of course not. Herberts is supposed to wait up for me.”

  Brandon raised his brows. “And you really believed he would?”

  She didn’t answer. Brandon grinned, then reached past her to swing the brass knocker.

  There was a long silence, both of them aware of the gaze of the footmen.

  Brandon leaned forward, his voice heavy and low. “You, madam, owe me a kiss.”

  “I gave you one in the carriage.”

  “No. That was an extra kiss. And you know it.”

  He was right. Verena bit back a sigh. She’d hoped he’d forgotten that. The port-induced fog was rapidly dissipating mainly due to the passion that had dizzied her in the carriage. Now, more than ever, she was all too aware of the dangers of being alone with a man like Brandon. He wouldn’t be all pretty words and impassioned declarations. No, he was a man of action. Or rather actions, which was the problem. Verena didn’t think he’d stop at one kiss and she was beginning to realize that she didn’t want him to.

  Perhaps if she just allowed him to kiss her here, on the stoop. His carriage sat in full view, as did his servants. Surely that would keep Brandon from doing anything more than he should. And might serve to remind her of her obligations to her own pride, as well.

  She rubbed her hands on her skirts, remembering the feel of his mouth on her fingers, of his fingers on her breasts. God help her, but he was far too sensual for her comfort. “Very well, Mr. St. John. If you must have your kiss—” She closed her eyes, puckered her lips and waited.

  He didn’t say a word.

  Verena puckered a bit harder, praying he’d just take his kiss and be gone.

  The silence grew. Eventually, she opened her eyes a bit and peered at him through her lashes. He stood before her, arms crossed, a very unamused expression on his face.

  She sighed and straightened. “You don’t want your kiss?”

  “Not like that.” He turned and banged on the door again.

  Verena winced. “You’ll crack the wood.”

  “I’d like to crack something,” he growled, his brows low. “Where the hell is that butler of yours? I’ve never seen such a lazy, untrained—”

  The doorknob turned and then the door slowly creaked open. Herberts stood in the door, blinking blearily, his hair in disarray, his neckcloth untied. “Here, now. Did oiye lock the door by mistake?”

  “Locking the door was no mistake,” Brandon said impatiently. “You were napping.”

  “Me?” The butler tried to look offended, but a drool line at the corner of his mouth marred the effort. “Oiye’ll have ye know oiye was sittin’ roight here, the entire time.”

  “With your head on a table,” Verena said, sailing past him. “No, no! Don’t argue. Just take my cloak.” She handed it to the butler. “Mr. St. John will be staying for a very short time. There is no need to bring refreshments.”

  Herberts nodded emphatically. “Good thing ye tol’ me that, missus, else oiye’d have fetched ’em afore ye knew it.”

  Brandon handed Herberts his coat and Verena lost no time leading the way to the sitting room. The quicker this was over, the better.

  Verena barely waited until he’d closed the door before she plastered a smile on her face. “Very well. You wanted your kiss.”

  “In good time,” he said slowly. He gazed down at her, as if he was trying to see into her heart. “Verena, I want to ask you a question. What do you know about Lord Humford?”

  Verena blinked. Humford. Was Brandon involved in the blackmail against James? “Why?”

  “Didn’t you have him to dinner a month ago?”

  “I have a dinner party the first Tuesday of every month. I always invite Lady Jessup and she either brings him or her son as her escort.”

  Brand’s gaze never left her face. “He’s dead.”

  Verena froze, her face paling. “What?”

  “Right after he left here.”

  “No!” She pressed a hand to her mouth. “How do you know? I should have thought—” She closed her eyes, her breathing shallow. “Oh my God. No.”

  Brandon searched her face. Either she was honestly surprised or she was the best actress of his acquaintance.

  “He was murdered, Verena.”

  Her eyes flew open. “Wh-who would do such a thing? He was a harmless old man!”
/>
  Who indeed. Looking at Verena, Brand found himself faced with a very unlikely dilemma. He believed her. Verena had not known about the murder. Her reaction was too quick, too true. He would have been able to tell if she were dissembling. Relief lightened his mood and he was pondering what to do next when the doorknocker thundered.

  Herberts could be heard shuffling down the hall in answer.

  Brand glanced at Verena. “Are you expecting company?”

  “It’s probably Mr. Lansdowne, come to make sure I arrived safely. If you want your kiss, you had best claim it now.”

  His time with her was at an end and he still had questions to ask. He had to see her again. The thought pleased him far more than it should have. “Lady Westforth, would you care to go for a carriage ride tomorrow? I bought a new set of grays for my phaeton and I thought you would enjoy an hour of fresh air.”

  “Are you certain your reputation can handle the strain of being seen with me? I’d hate for people to begin cutting your acquaintance.”

  He could have told her that as a St. John, he could be seen in the company of all manners of lowly born persons. But it suddenly struck him how snobbish such a sentiment would seem. Good God, when had he gotten so…He frowned. “If you don’t wish to go riding, then perhaps we can—”

  “No, no! I didn’t say that. I was merely surprised at the offer. I suppose I should go. It might not do your reputation credit, but it could be of immeasurable help to mine.”

  Brandon had to smile at that. While Verena would not accept money from him, she obviously had no compunction about using him to better her standing in society. “It’s so nice to be needed.”

  “Isn’t it?” she said placidly.

  He eyed her a moment longer, quelling a desire to laugh. “You really are a most ungracious woman.”

  “And you, sir, are a very rude man.”

  He opened his mouth, but she held up a hand. “Don’t even try to deny it. You are rude and you like being rude.”

  Brand started to protest, then stopped. She was right. He did enjoy bypassing all the annoying civilities. “I don’t like pretending I’m something I’m not. If you want gentle wooing, Chase was the man for that.”