Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3)

by Mia Marlowe

“This way, doctor,” Devon said over his shoulder to Dr. Trowbridge who was still puffing up the stairs behind them. He started down the hall toward the Green Room.

  “What did the burglar steal?” Emmaline asked Baxter, knowing Monty would fear that the Tetisheri statue was gone.

  “One doesn’t know, miss,” Baxter said. “It was dark. One didn’t get a very good look at him. He was devilishly quick about giving one a clout to the head. A big chap, he was. An enormous big chap.”

  “We’ll have the doctor take a look at your head after he sees to Dr. Farnsworth,” Devon said as he laid Monty down on the jade coverlet. Then he shepherded Emmaline from the room so Dr. Trowbridge could complete his examination.

  “There’s nothing more you can do for him at the moment. Once the doctor is finished, we’ll know more. In the meantime, I wonder what the burglar was after.” Devon took her hand and led her back to the Blue Suite. “Help me discover if anything is missing from your father’s effects.”

  Emmaline knew he was trying to distract her, but she followed him in any case with a hollow numbness in her chest. Whatever else might be missing, the only thing of real value to Monty was the Tetisheri statue. If it was gone, he would be inconsolable.

  When she slowed her pace, she felt Devon’s hand on the small of her back, warm and firm. She concentrated on that comforting bit of reality as he guided her down the hall.

  How could he expect her to poke about in her father’s things at a time like this? Why should she care what was missing?

  This was the first time she’d had to face Monty’s illness with a medical professional. Before, she could let him indulge in the fantasy that he’d caught a cold that lingered, or that his weight loss was the result of a vigorous life. Once Dr. Trowbridge gave his opinion, the specter of consumption would assume corporeal form, and become all too real.

  Devon brought up the lights in the Blue Suite sitting room, then disappeared into Monty’s dark chamber to adjust the wall sconces there. “Baxter wasn’t exaggerating. It’s as if a whirlwind was turned loose in here.”

  Emma paused to lean on the doorjamb. Dresser drawers were left pulled out and the contents were strewn across the Aubusson carpet. The double doors on the large wardrobe in the corner were thrown open and all Monty’s jackets and trousers were yanked from their hangers. His extra pair of shoes was kicked aside. The mattress on the bed was askew, as if the burglar had rifled beneath it in search of the princess’s pea.

  “Our thief was in a bit of a hurry, it seems. He left your father’s jewelry,” Devon said. Despite the appalling state of the chamber, Monty’s second best collar studs and cuff links were still in their small jewel box. His shaving accoutrements were present and accounted for, as were all his articles of clothing, though they’d been ripped from their hangers and might have lost a button or two. “The statue seems to be gone.”

  “No, it isn’t. Monty didn’t have it. Tetisheri is in my chamber,” she said woodenly. “Or at least she should be.”

  Emmaline led the way through the sitting room and into her bedchamber, feeling as if she walked through gruel. Her limbs were heavy. Putting one foot before the other was a supreme effort. And she didn’t care a bit what she might find when she got there.

  The only thing that mattered was Monty. She hoped the doctor wasn’t bleeding him. It might take him the better part of a week to recover from that kind of treatment.

  Why hadn’t she left strict instructions not to do it? Her tongue seemed stuck to the roof of her mouth. If she uttered one syllable more than necessary, all her fear, all her grief, might rush out of her in a cataract of such power, it would wash her away entirely.

  “Nothing seems amiss in here,” Devon said. “Looks as if Baxter arrived in time.”

  Emmaline knelt and pulled out the bottom drawer of the chifferobe and pushed aside her second-best chemise. The Tetisheri statue smiled serenely up at her.

  “Father will be relieved.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  Not really. If the statue had been stolen, it would have meant Monty would have to call off the scheme and she wouldn’t have to cheat Theodore.

  Or Griffin. His handsome face was drawn with concern. Emma realized she was trapped. She had to go forward with the plan or Monty would have no chance at a cure. He’d continue to decline until the disease bore him away from her forever. But if she went ahead with the scheme, she’d be defrauding Griffin. Her thoughts chased each other like mice in a maze, stupid with hunger from smelling the unreachable cheese. There was no way out, no clear win to end this game.

  She was unable to check her tears. They came in torrents streaming down her cheeks.

  Devon took her hands, raised her to her feet, and pulled her into a comforting embrace. He held her steady while her shoulders shook. He didn’t scold her for making a wet mess of his fine white shirt front, but he did make small soothing sounds, a soft shushing noise. Emma pressed her face into the wool of his jacket and inhaled.

  Spicy sandalwood and citrusy bergamot and warm male.

  He didn’t try to console her with false hope, for which she blessed his name. It would only make things worse. In fact, he didn’t say anything. Instead, Devon cradled her head against his chest with his big palm. It was a simple gesture, but it made her ache with such tenderness, the tears fell harder.

  He held her tighter and she clung to him, wrapping her arms around him. Griffin was her rock, her personal island of safety while life crashed down around her in pounding waves.

  He kissed her crown and she quieted in his arms, the tears abating.

  Then she felt it . . . him . . . hard against her belly.

  If someone came in and discovered them thus, Theodore would be desolate. She pulled out of the circle of Griffin’s arms. “I’m quite recovered. Thank you, milord.”

  “Griffin,” he corrected. “And I doubt you’re recovered in the slightest.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed it gently on her cheeks to wipe away the last of the tears. “You don’t always have to be strong, Emmaline. It’s no sin to need someone, you know.”

  Only need? Was that all this jumbled chaos in her chest was? It felt like so much more. Sometimes when she looked at Griffin, her eyes ached at the brightness of his masculine beauty. She wanted to drink him in, engulf him, let him shoot out her fingers and toes in brilliant shafts of light.

  What a thing to think! I must be losing my mind. Emmaline covered her face with both hands.

  “If you won’t let me comfort you, perhaps you’ll allow me to attempt a diversion,” he said. “I believe you owe me a waltz.”

  She lowered her hands and blinked in surprise. She wasn’t the only one whose sanity was in question. Was he one brick short of a load, too? “There’s no music.”

  “We don’t need it. We need only our imaginations and a rhythm, which I’m fully capable of supplying.” He gave her a proper bow and a devastating smile. “May I have the pleasure of this dance?”

  It was a ruthlessly obvious ploy to distract her from what was happening to Monty, but she decided to succumb to it. A dance meant she’d be back in his arms, at a proper distance, of course. She could touch him again without guilt gnawing her belly.

  “The pleasure is mine.” She mouthed the proper response, dropped a shallow curtsey, and slipped into a dance frame with him.

  He started to hum, a low rumbling approximation of a Strauss waltz. The melody didn’t remain entirely in the same key, rambling with disregard for any sense of pitch. Once he lost the thread of it altogether and substituted a few bars of God Save the Queen, but Emmaline found his attempt charming. They moved around the room in gentle three-quarter time.

  Theodore was a splendid dancer, light on his feet while telegraphing sure, capable leads to his partner. Griffin moved with the grace of a large predator, sleek and stealthy, every muscle under tense control. She felt like a helpless gazelle, mesmerized into mirroring his movements even though he might shed the veneer of
civilization at any moment and devour her whole.

  As they swayed and dipped, it was as if they became one entity. She wasn’t conscious of being led, but she seemed to know where he was about to put his foot before he did. As they approached the carved bed post, he executed a flawless chaussée and promenade, narrowly avoiding a collision.

  “My apologies, madam,” he said with a sober nod to the post as they box-stepped in place for a moment. “I was so dazzled by my partner’s beauty, I almost didn’t see you there.”

  Emmaline giggled, something she rarely did.

  “Now there’s a sound I haven’t heard before,” Griffin said. “You should do it more often.”

  “If I did, folk would surely name me a simpleton,” she said.

  “Do you care so much what others think?”

  A confidence artist always had to be aware of the opinion of others. If she read her mark incorrectly, the best laid plans could unravel in a moment.

  A moment like this.

  Suddenly, she ached to tell him everything. Since Monty had always been a bit fuzzy on the whole issue of right and wrong, he’d neglected Emmaline’s theological education somewhat, but the rationale behind the church’s confessional finally made sense to her.

  What a relief it would be to lay her sins bare.

  But Lord Devonwood was no priest. He wouldn’t absolve her. In fact, he’d be far more likely to call the constabulary and see her and Monty hauled off to gaol. She straightened her posture while her soul hunkered behind stiff courtesy.

  “If I care for the good opinion of others it may be because my station does not allow me to flaunt convention with impunity as yours does, milord.”

  His smile faded. “I thought we were past the use of titles. My mistake.”

  It didn’t seem possible that she could injure him, but his suddenly stern expression made her think she had.

  “You’re a fine dancer,” she offered by way of consolation. “And your humming is very . . . tuneful.”

  “You have the makings of a diplomat, I see. In that case, you should see me paint.” His smile was back. It warmed her to her toes.

  “You’re an artist as well?” she said.

  “Lord, no, but you should see my attempts. It’s right down there with my ability to carry a tune. There ought to be a law against the way I abuse paint and canvas.”

  This time, she bypassed a giggle and went straight for a laugh.

  “Another thing you should do more of,” he said approvingly.

  “Some people have a gift for levity. Alas, I am not one of them.” Her life had been too deadly serious for the most part. Even the playful bits, when she and Monty perfectly executed a scheme that relieved a greedy mark of his funds, were tinged with the desperation of knowing it was either temporary success or continued lean times for them. “You, however, seem to be a man of many talents.”

  “A few,” he said.

  It occurred to her that the way the man danced was a good indication of what sort of lover he’d be. Gently controlling. Powerful. Tender.

  “I’ve been known to get a sense about people,” he admitted. “You, for example, have more layers than an artichoke and are twice as prickly, but under all that impressive armor, I suspect you’re frightened most of the time.”

  Their waltz slowed to a crawl, and he held her far closer than propriety allowed.

  “An artichoke? Thank you, Griffin,” she said in a falsely bright tone. “What woman doesn’t relish being compared to a vegetable?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, cinching her tighter yet. “I simply meant you don’t have to fear me.”

  They stopped all pretense of dancing and stood stock still. She felt his ribs expand and contract in slow even breaths. Her own chest advanced and retreated in time with his. She turned her face toward him and tilted her chin.

  “But I wonder sometimes if I should fear you,” he said, yet he made no move to release her. His eyes darkened as he looked down at her.

  His mouth was so close she could feel the warmth of his exhalation feather over her lips. He moved toward her by the barest fraction of an inch. She lifted on her toes and brushed his mouth with hers.

  She and Monty were planning to bilk him of a scandalous amount of money. She was supposed to be considering marrying his brother. Yet she wanted him to kiss her back more than a Bedouin wants water.

  “Fear me? Yes, Lord Devonwood. Perhaps you should.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “Fear be damned.” He lowered his mouth to hers.

  Her heart wept. It was a trusting kiss. She didn’t deserve it.

  Then he slanted his lips, ravaging her mouth with a kiss that left her bruised and breathless.

  Yes, Emmaline exulted, allowing herself to melt into him. That was what she deserved. A taking. A ruthless theft. She wanted him to steal her. That way she could lose herself in this man, if for only a moment.

  No thoughts. No worries. No fretting over what the morrow would bring. Only blessed hot kisses, moist shared breath, and fevered touches.

  He kissed down to the daring line of her décolletage, teasing his lips along the edge of the amethyst silk. Her breasts were full and heavy, the aching tips pressed hard against her stiff corset. The bodice was tight enough, he wouldn’t be able to free her bosom without unlacing her.

  She almost pushed her own palms against them to still the ache. Instead she arched her back, hoping to expose another finger-width of skin for his mouth’s exploration.

  He groaned in frustration, a sentiment she shared with her whole heart. Encased in their whalebone gaol, her nipples throbbed at the nearness of his mouth. The mere memory of his lips on them sent a zing of desire straight to her womb.

  If he could only suckle her again . . .

  She palmed his cheeks and kissed him, openmouthed this time. She delved in. She devoured. She couldn’t get enough of his lips and tongue.

  In her mind, she’d always likened Lord Devonwood to a predatory animal. Now she wondered if perhaps of the pair of them, she was the real feral beast.

  His hands found her waist. Without breaking off their kiss, he raised her off her feet and deposited her on the bed. He lifted her skirts, collapsing the concentric rings of her hoops, and ran his hands up her legs. Stepping forward, Griffin forced her knees apart.

  Even through the linen of her pantalets, his palms were warm as heated bricks at the foot of the bed. Pleasure danced in their wake. When he reached the apex of her thighs, where her open-crotched underthings left her sex exposed and vulnerable, she reflexively tried to pull her knees together, but his hips blocked her efforts.

  He couldn’t possibly mean to touch her there. The thought that he might sent warmth throbbing between her legs.

  It would be exceedingly wicked. Sinful.

  Wonderful.

  It was what she’d always longed for and never realized she’d wanted. Griffin handled that secret part of her with such delicacy, such lavish tenderness, it didn’t matter that she still didn’t deserve his gentle loving.

  What mattered was the way he made her feel.

  Who knew her body held so much capacity for delight? She quivered when he teased her soft curls. She ached, swollen and needy, when he slipped a finger between her slick folds.

  When his thumb grazed an extra sensitive spot, it sent heat and bliss washing over her.

  “Ah, just there.” The words slipped from her lips between one kiss and the next. She grasped his shoulders and held on, white-knuckled, while he continued to torment that needy bit of flesh with slow, ever tightening circles.

  He kissed her neck. He suckled her earlobe. Her breath hissed in over her teeth when she remembered to breathe. She began to shake inside. Something deep within her tightened, like a cat whipping itself with its own tail, every muscle tensed for a leap.

  Emma kissed Griffin back, matching his movements, nibbling his ear, sucking his neck, desperate for him not to stop the devastating game he played with
her mound. Even though she knew she was still seated on the bed with her knees spread, she had the eerie sense that she was on a journey. Her soul was going somewhere. Trying to reach some place. She strained toward that unknown goal with every bit of her being.

  Then suddenly, she was there.

  “Griffin,” she breathed his name. It slipped from her lips as power over her own body slipped away as well. The tightness inside her unraveled in a frenzied, whiplike release. Her womb pounded. Her limbs bucked and shuddered with the force of her inner pulses.

  When she’d imagined earlier that if she could only drink Griffin in, his light would shoot out her fingers and toes, she’d thought she was losing her mind.

  She had no idea something very like that could actually happen.

  The pumping contractions began to subside. Emma’s head lolled on her shoulders. She felt boneless and sated and couldn’t bring herself to care about anything for the space of ten heartbeats.

  She was still glowing with Griffin’s light inside her.

  She was vaguely aware that he smoothed down her skirt. Then he kissed her, his mouth soft and giving on hers.

  Emma still didn’t deserve his trusting kiss, but she allowed it anyway. Perhaps that was the point of such things. The kiss she didn’t deserve was exactly the one she needed.

  The sharp clack of heels on hardwood sounded in the next room.

  “That’ll be Baxter,” Griffin said softly. “Are you all right?”

  She’d never been so all right. He’d taken control of her body and stood her world on its head. A sense of well-being spread over her like warm oil, but she couldn’t regain enough self-mastery to answer him immediately. She drew a shaky breath.

  “Yes,” she finally managed.

  “Good.” He helped her to her feet. “I’ll stay with you if you wish while you speak to the doctor.”

  She’d been lost in the realm of pure sensation. Now the real world slammed back into her with his words. Monty, consumption, Tetisheri, Theodore . . . everything rushed in. She had to abandon the short respite she’d enjoyed with Griffin and plunge back into the tangled web of her life.