Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3)

by Mia Marlowe

  But Emmaline was nothing if not a realist. Griffin had definitely been in the throes of some sort of apoplexy. “Surely there will be a physician in attendance at Lord Whitmore’s. We’ll have him take a look at you.”

  “We will not,” he said with vehemence; then he softened his tone. “Trust me. It’s nothing a physician can help. I insist you respect my wishes.”

  “Then you’ve had”—she tried to think of what to call it that wouldn’t upset him further—“episodes like this before?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you know what it is?”

  “Miss Farnsworth, every person on earth holds at least one secret close to their chest. I’ll wager you have yours. Would you be willing to share the deepest knot in your soul in exchange for mine?”

  He had her there. Everything about her had to remain an enigma. She was a huckster. A fugitive, even. She might be tempted to swap secrets with Devon. She was burning with curiosity, but she couldn’t very well admit she was a thorough fraud without jeopardizing Monty as well.

  When she didn’t answer immediately, he went on. “No? Well, that’s all right. I’ll learn all your secrets soon enough, I imagine.”

  She hoped not. If he learned the truth, she and Monty would have to take to their heels.

  “But I will make you a promise,” he said as the cab slowed before a magnificent edifice. Light blazed in every window of the four-story town house. “I will tell you my secret. Tomorrow. You’ll need to know it then.”

  He alighted from the hansom and paid the driver. Then he handed Emmaline down, holding her fingertips a fraction longer than necessary.

  Why would she need to know something later that he wasn’t willing to tell her now? Curiosity threatened to turn her inside out. “Why tomorrow?”

  His lips twitched in a half-smile. “Let’s get through the next twelve hours, shall we? I’ve a feeling everything will be much clearer in the morning.”

  Euphoria flooded Devon’s mind as surely as if he were an opium eater. Even though he’d just had a long, detailed vision, he suffered not the slightest twinge of the debilitating headache that ought to have accompanied it. At Emmaline’s touch, his pain retreated, like mist before the morning sun.

  For whatever reason, she made his gift bearable. Emmaline removed the curse of his prescience with her slightest caress. She was his cure.

  And his sickness, he realized, as Theodore hurried toward them. Dr. Farnsworth was already squiring his mother and sister toward Lord Whitmore’s open front door. Of course, Teddy would want to collect Emmaline.

  The same Emmaline who would climb into Devon’s bed this very night.

  The Sending was unequivocal. Theodore might escort her to Whitmore’s ball, but later tonight, Devon would take her maidenhead. Normally, he writhed under the threat of what was to come, but there was no avoiding the future rushing toward him. For the first time in ages, he felt no desire to try.

  “There you are, love,” Teddy said as he offered Emmaline his arm. “I’m sorry for the mix-up. Your father and I were jawing about the statue and you know how we are. I hadn’t even realized there wasn’t room for you till Dev closed the carriage door. Thanks for bringing her along so quickly, brother.”

  He flicked a grin at Devon before turning his attention back to Emmaline.

  “Now don’t fret a bit, dearest,” Ted said. “Everyone is going to love you as much as I do. I’ll see to it that you have a wonderful time tonight.”

  “Me, too,” Devon murmured once they were out of earshot. The first time a woman shared a bed with a man should be magical. He’d make sure it was for Emmaline.

  Then Teddy’s laughter floated back to Devon and he and Emmaline approached the open doors. Guilt tried to dig in its talons, but Devon shrugged it off.

  How could this be his fault? Emmaline was going to come to him of her own free will. Myriad details from his last Sending—her needy sighs, the softness of her breasts against his back, her slick readiness—rushed back into him, leaving him hard with anticipation. A man couldn’t help it if a woman climbed into his bed.

  Could he?

  Yes, damnation, he could. He’d protected Teddy since their father’s death. He must at least try to protect him now. Somehow, even if it meant he had to leave his own house and sleep somewhere else, Devon had to find a way to keep this vision from coming to pass.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t want Emmaline, especially now that he was certain there was something unique about her that kept the aftereffects of his gift in check. That alone made a connection with her seem “meant” somehow. If his gift had done nothing else, it had made him a believer in Fate. He still hadn’t settled the question of whose hand might be behind those preordained events, but his abortive attempts to change outcomes in the past had convinced him of the futility of struggling against the future.

  Beyond the obvious metaphysical connection between him and the American miss, the state of his trousers made it abundantly clear how badly he wanted Emmaline simply for herself.

  But he wanted not to betray his brother almost as badly.

  He looked up at Lord Whitmore’s door in time to see a liveried servant usher Theodore and Emmaline inside.

  The best people arrived fashionably late. No one would take it ill if Devon took a turn around the block so his body could settle before he entered Lord Whitmore’s resplendent home. He strode quickly through the immaculate neighborhood. The street twisted around on itself and made for a long circuitous walk, a vicious circle that mirrored his dilemma.

  No matter how far he went, eventually he’d end up back where he started. No matter how briskly he walked, he realized one trip around the block would not be sufficient for his body to forget the vision. No matter what he did, Emmaline Farnsworth was going to slide between his sheets later that night and he was going to sink into her sweet flesh.

  Theodore shepherded Emmaline around the elegantly appointed rooms, introducing her to barons, viscountesses, members of parliament, and one slightly inebriated marquess. After meeting so many people, Emmaline had no hope of keeping all their names straight, let alone their titles. To confuse matters further, given the slightest encouragement, most of them launched into a recitation of their illustrious relations as well.

  Emmaline danced the Grand March with Teddy, then followed it with the first waltz. There were easily twenty or more couples crowding the dance floor, so she was grateful Teddy was a graceful dancer who knew how to maneuver in tight spaces. She was conscious, in the same manner that wary woodland creatures note the presence of predators, of the number of eyes on her and Theodore as they glided around the room.

  Each time a matron brought her fan to her lips and leaned toward the woman next to her, Emma was sure she was the topic of conversation. She was being measured in the balance of London Society and probably found sadly insufficient.

  Her next partner for the polka, a short, round, and rather talkative Sir Somebody-or-other, was less gifted in his feet than his tongue. By the time the music ended, Emma felt she’d taken an unfortunate ride on a bouncing ball.

  Even if she was the subject of speculation and gossip, this occasion shouldn’t be so difficult. She’d managed to finesse her way through a dinner with a Grand Duke once when she and Monty were in Paris. They made off with a king’s ransom for one of her fake reliquaries at the conclusion of that particular last supper.

  But she hadn’t had a carriage ride with Griffin Titus Preston Nash before that dinner either.

  The man addled her. He made her feel prickly all over, slightly achy, as if she had the beginnings of a fever. She caught herself watching him from the corner of her eye to make sure he was all right. He showed no ill effects from that awful fit whatsoever.

  She was very nearly worrying herself sick over him and there he was, tripping the light fantastic with a Miss Von Schreppenheim from Leipzig. The wretch had the gall to wink at Emmaline as he and his dance partner stepped lively to the mazurka.

&nbs
p; Worry was replaced by something dangerously close to jealousy.

  “Pardon me, Lady Bentley.” She turned to the turbaned lady Theodore had left her with while he collected his dance partner for the gavotte. Her own dance card was empty for the next two musical selections. “Could you please direct me to the lady’s retiring room?”

  Lady Bentley did better than that. She escorted her there, saying, “A young lady ought not leave the hall alone, you know. Could lead to all sorts of unwholesome speculation about whom she might meet in an inappropriate circumstance.”

  Lady Bentley inquired gently after Emmaline’s familial relations in New York as she showed her to the room reserved for ladies who needed to loosen their laces or remove pinching slippers for a bit. Since Emmaline had no relations to speak of, in New York or elsewhere, it was a decidedly one-sided conversation.

  “Oh, dear.” Lady Bentley lifted her head when a new musical piece began. “There’s the quadrille. I promised it to Lord Harrow.”

  “By all means, go,” Emmaline said. “I shall only be a moment. And if we’re close enough to hear the quadrille, we’re not so far removed from the main party either.”

  “Well, I daresay it’ll be all right then.” The worthy matron bustled away, as flushed with excitement over the prospect of a dance as a debutante.

  The room was deserted, which wasn’t surprising since the evening was still young. A porcelain chamber pot had been thoughtfully placed behind a chinoiserie screen. Before Emmaline could settle her broad skirt over it, she heard the rustle of silk on the other side of the screen. She couldn’t bring herself to relieve her bladder with someone there, but felt equally shy about making a sudden appearance from behind the screen.

  So she kept silent and the speakers on the other side of the hand-painted silk resumed a giggling conversation. Then the giggling stopped.

  “This American girl, is he truly serious about her, do you think?”

  Emmaline’s ears pricked. The speaker could be referring only to her.

  “I believe he is,” came the second voice. Emmaline recognized this one as Louisa. “Don’t let the Yankee accent fool you. She’s really quite nice once you get to know her.”

  Seems I have her fooled. Emma resisted the urge to sigh. If things were different, Louisa might truly have been her friend. Her sister, even, if Emmaline could accept Theodore’s proposal.

  Being a scoundrel was a lonely business.

  A small sob escaped from one of the girls on the other side of the screen.

  “Oh, Cressida, darling,” Louisa said. “Whatever is the matter?”

  “I’m sorry, dear. It’s only that I’ve had my heart set on your brother for just ages. Ever since you and I went off to school together, in fact.” Lady Cressida paused to sniff and then blew her nose loudly. “I know Teddy always thought of me as a child. Seven years difference in our ages was a lifetime when I was in pinafores, but it’s truly nothing now. I so hoped things would be different tonight, that he’d finally see me with fresh eyes.”

  Emmaline stooped to peer through a slit in the screen where one of the silk panels was attached to the carved wood. Lady Cressida, Lord Whitmore’s daughter, was lovely, a pink and cream confection topped off with golden curls. Her little bow of a mouth was a much coveted feature.

  Emma knew her own lips spread too broadly across her face for fashion and her hair was too nearly a garish red to turn many masculine heads. She wondered how Theodore could have passed over this girl on his way to her.

  “Oh, Cressie, don’t take on so. Truth to tell, Teddy’s become a frightful bore. I don’t know why you’d fancy him. All he talks about is that Egyptian statue he and Dr. Farnsworth are working on. You really don’t want him. Truly, you don’t,” Louisa said with a wicked grin. “Not when there are so many other eligible men.”

  “You only say that because he’s your brother. Theodore is the finest of men.”

  Emmaline was forced to agree. Teddy certainly deserved better than she was giving him.

  “Lady Bentley had it on the best authority that Miss Farnsworth hasn’t even a proper dowry to speak of,” Lady Cressida went on.

  Emmaline’s brows arched in surprise. Lady Bentley had been so pleasant to her face, so solicitous when enquiring about her family, when all the while she’d already begun spreading rumors about her. The fact that the gossip was true didn’t negate the sting.

  “She even hinted that Lord Devonwood might cut Theodore off if he goes ahead with this misalliance,” Cressida said.

  “That’s ridiculous. Dev may not approve, but he’s devoted to Teddy,” Louisa said staunchly. “And he certainly hasn’t threatened Teddy with a reduction of funds . . . that I know of.”

  Emmaline’s belly churned. Now that she thought about it, Devon had almost promised to do that very thing while they rode to Lord Whitmore’s together. She was used to scrabbling for a living with Monty, flush one day, stomach knocking on her backbone the next, but Theodore wasn’t. He’d feel the pinch sharply and, being raised a gentleman, would resent having to descend to trade, or worse, to Emma’s brand of skullduggery in order to make ends meet.

  “I confess I was hoping you’d tell me Miss Farnsworth is a disagreeable sort who’ll run him off in a month,” Lady Cressida said with a charming whimper. She even cried prettily. “Do you think me terrible?”

  “Of course not.”

  There was a whisper of fabric and the friends shared a quick hug. Loneliness stabbed at Emma’s chest. She had no extended family, no friends. All she really had was Monty. And she wouldn’t have him much longer if they couldn’t make this scheme work.

  “Since Teddy’s all but taken, why don’t you set your cap for Devon?” Louisa suggested. “Heaven knows he needs to take a wife sooner rather than later.”

  “Lord Devonwood?” Cressida sounded shocked. “He’s a handsome man, of course, and considered no end of a catch, but he’s so dark and stern. Surely he’d be a difficult husband.” She paused to sigh dramatically. “But Theodore is all that is lightness and amiability.”

  “You could be Lady Devonwood, a countess,” Louisa argued. “That counts for something. With Teddy, you’d just be Mrs. Nash.”

  “You know I’ve never been one to measure a man by his title.”

  Spoken like a woman who was born with a “Lady” already attached to her name, Emma though uncharitably.

  “All I really want, Louisa, is a home and children and a husband who cares for me.”

  The same longing made Emma’s chest constrict. Against her better judgment, she found herself liking Louisa’s friend.

  “Frankly,” Cressida said, “Lord Devonwood terrifies me.”

  Emmaline felt a strong kinship with her. She feared Devon, too, but not for the same reason. She was afraid he’d unmask her. Hadn’t he said he’d know her secrets soon enough?

  And she both feared and enjoyed the sensations he sent rippling over her with no more than a look.

  The ladies clucked over their appearance for a few more minutes until the strains of a waltz permeated the retiring room.

  “Oh! Oh!” Cressida said, puffing like a little steam engine. “That’s my waltz with your brother.”

  “Don’t sound so distressed,” Louisa said. “Devon doesn’t bite.”

  “No, not Lord Devonwood. It’s Theodore for this dance.” She consulted her gilded card. “Yes, there it is, the second waltz. I know you’ll think me horribly fast, but if that Miss Farnsworth hasn’t the sense to snap Theodore up, I’m going to do my best to charm him away from her. All’s fair, you know.”

  Lady Cressida hurried from the room with Louisa at her heels.

  Emmaline sighed. Cressida had a daisy-fresh prettiness about her. She was well-born and no doubt well-dowered. Her money and position would stand Theodore in good stead after Emmaline and her father finished snookering him out of an astounding amount of cash. Teddy really couldn’t do better than Lady Cressida.

  Emmaline almost wished her
luck.

  CHAPTER 16

  “I’ll say this much for them,” Lord Northrop said, scowling into his cup of weak punch. “They may not have a brain among the lot of them, but this year’s crop of debutantes is blessed with an abundance of beauty. Take Devonwood’s sister there.”

  “You’d better not,” Devon said darkly and sipped his punch.

  There was only the slightest whiff of alcohol in the drinks. Lady Whitmore was a notorious teetotaler. Even the dash of spirits had probably been introduced to the punch without her knowledge. Given Northrop’s proclivity for excess, the tame punch was probably for the best. Devon and his two friends refilled their etched crystal cups.

  Make that one of my friends, he amended in silence. Bernard Seyton, Lord Kingsley, was the third pillar of the unholy triumvirate known as the Fallen Angels from Oxford. So far, Kingsley hadn’t overstepped with Louisa so he was still technically in Devon’s good graces, but that could change in a heartbeat. Northrop’s appraising gaze swept over her again, dancing on Devon’s last nerve.

  Who knew having a marriageable sister could be such a burden?

  “You can’t fault the man’s eyes,” Kingsley said, laying a conciliatory hand on Devon’s shoulder. “Seems your sister has turned into quite a tempting armful when you weren’t looking. Worse luck for you, old chap.”

  “It’s one thing to beat off the rakes out there. I expect that,” Devon said. “I didn’t think I’d have to threaten to thrash my friends over her. Isn’t there supposed to be honor among thieves?”

  “Now, Dev, you know we Fallen Angels never stooped to thievery. If we gathered a few maidenheads along the way, it was because they were freely offered, not stolen,” Northrop said, draining his punch cup and setting it on the beeswax polished mantel instead of a servant’s empty tray. “Speaking of things stolen, what’s the status of that statue business? I know you think I was drunk the other day, but I haven’t forgotten about it. Finding a fortune in the desert is a bit akin to stealing it, isn’t it?”