The Secret of My Seduction (Scandals Book 7)

by Caroline Linden

  “Do you like your breasts?” He covered them with his hands, appreciating the firm swell and rigid peaks of her nipples.

  “What?” She shook her head as if just waking up. “Why do you keep talking?”

  Yes, why? Take her now, urged the devil in his brain. “I want to know. I want you to revel in everything I do to you, and in everything you’re going to do to me. Next time,” he added as her eyes flew wide open again.

  “I thought this would be much simpler,” she said in a suffocated voice.

  “Then you should have asked someone else,” he replied, and took one deep pink nipple between his teeth. She flinched, and he swiped his tongue over her flesh to soothe it, and began to suckle. His hands moved up and down her back, from the plump firmness of her bottom to her bowed shoulders beneath her rippling hair, urging her from side to side or back and forth as suited his explorations. She was soft and supple in his hands, moving readily. Her fingers remained knotted behind his neck, and even when he caught himself wishing she would touch him, Liam managed to keep to his plan: drive her wild. When the first sigh of rapture met his ears, he slipped his hand between their bodies and stroked the dark curls there.

  Bathsheba almost leapt off his lap; Liam kept her in place with his free hand around her nape. For a second her dazed eyes met his, then she dropped her head back and began to move in time with the slow strokes of his fingers. Now that she was rocking up and down on her knees, he eased backward so he could watch. The sight of his fingers sliding into her most intimate flesh sent a bolt of heat through him; his blood was scalding him from the inside out. Jaw tight, he pushed one, then two fingers inside her, still teasing that delicate bud with his thumb. Bathsheba moaned aloud; her fingers dug into his shoulders now, her spine moving in a sinuous wave as she rode his hand.

  Sweat popped out on his brow. She wants you inside her, screamed the devil. Deep inside her—God, so tight—so wet. Desperately Liam bent his head back to her breast, laving her flesh and sucking hard, so hard there might be a mark later. And she leaned back, almost begging him, her breasts shivering and bouncing every time she breathed.

  She began panting, her breath catching with every stroke. Gritting his teeth, he pushed his fingers as deep inside her as he could, withdrawing and thrusting deep again, the way he ought to be doing with a different body part. Watching feverishly, he ran his other hand over the damp curls, ruthlessly exposing the deep pink flesh and then spread that flesh open to show the pearl that held the key to her pleasure.

  Speared on his left hand, driven onward by his right, Bathsheba flushed from her hair to her pretty little breasts, and rode him hard. Almost suffocating with arousal, Liam pushed her toward climax, trying to hold back his own. He’d thought this would be a bit less engrossing, a bit more scientific, but now he was nearly frantic to make her come so he could let loose the explosion building at the back of his mind.

  Her arms tensed; she gasped for breath; the ripples of climax shuddered over her belly and a hot wetness covered his fingers, deep inside her. Liam cupped his right hand hard over her mound and let go, not even caring that he was spending himself in his trousers like a schoolboy. Bathsheba gave a long, sweet exclamation of release, and the world went dark around him for a moment.

  Chapter Five

  If Bathsheba had thought taking off her gown in front of Liam was awkward, it was nothing to the feeling when she opened her eyes after the last glorious thunderclaps of climax had died away and found herself draped over Liam, naked but for her stockings.

  Good heavens.

  Tentatively she tried to wiggle free, but her hands were caught behind him. He had fallen against the sofa, his head thrown back with an expression that could only be called fierce. Reality splashed over her in a cold wave. Now she was going to have to dress, probably while he watched, and then say good night. A long, chilly ride in the carriage would follow, and then she’d have to hope Danny had already gone to bed. There was no way on earth she could keep her expression neutral if her brother were waiting up to ask how her evening had gone. And if Danny found out she’d lied to him and snuck out to meet Liam, for the express purpose of debauchery, Bathsheba didn’t even know how she would endure it.

  Liam opened his eyes. They were a clear slate gray now. For a moment the two of them just gazed at each other, his face calm and serene and hers, no doubt, blotchy from embarrassment.

  “That’s lesson one,” he murmured.

  Stiffly she nodded.

  “When do you want lesson two?”

  Now. The thought streaked across her mind before she could stop it. “I can come away again on Friday,” she said.

  “No good,” he replied, skimming one hand over her bare thigh. “I’ve a dinner engagement.”

  She frowned slightly, trying to ignore his touch. Danny would not expect her to go out on Saturday evening, and it seemed wrong to arrange an illicit rendezvous on Sunday, the Lord’s Day. “Monday next?”

  “Tomorrow.” He grinned, lazy and tempting. “Tell Danny you’ve joined a sewing circle.”

  “He’d never believe that!” She pressed her lips together. “I don’t usually go out more than once or twice a week.”

  “Tell him you’ve met someone,” said Liam. “At the assembly rooms.”

  She raised her brows. “And when he declares he’s going to accompany me the next time, to meet this hopeful suitor? Or expects the man to call on me at home? Don’t be daft. Danny’s got one strong arm left, and he’ll draw your cork.”

  Liam seemed interested in that. “Would he? You think he’d disapprove of me?”

  Danny would strongly—violently—disapprove of Liam taking off his sister’s clothing and doing all sorts of wicked things to her. Liam’s hand was still between her legs, brushing almost absently over the curling hair he had so boldly pushed aside. Something deep inside her belly contracted at the memory of his fingers moving inside her, and his mouth twitched in a satisfied smile; he knew.

  Blushing, Bathsheba struggled to her feet, then felt even more exposed standing naked in front of him. She grabbed the twisted ball of undergarments and began tugging them apart. “We both know you aren’t going to call in Totman Street and tell Danny I asked you to bed me.”

  Liam still sprawled on the sofa as if he’d just woken from a nap. Bathsheba got her shift back on and jammed her arms through the straps of her stays.

  “I would hardly say that. Would he draw my cork, as you put it, if I simply called on you?”

  “Why on earth would you do that?” She was honestly appalled. Her entire plan rested on one crucial point: no one must ever know. Liam had every reason to keep it secret. He and Danny were acquainted and knew each other well. Danny, for all that he was her younger brother, had a protective streak, and if he discovered this affair, he’d start growling at Liam to marry her. Bathsheba had promised it was only for research—and Liam had only agreed because it was to their mutual business benefit.

  “It would make it easier for you to get away if you didn’t have to lie to your brother,” he pointed out. “I can tell him I’m escorting you to the theater.”

  She snorted with laughter as she yanked the strings through the stays. Liam had undone everything. “Like a courting couple? Do you want Danny to start asking about your intentions?” She shook her head and scooped up her petticoat. He didn’t reply, and when she’d got the petticoat over her head and was fastening the short bodice again, she saw he wore a rather moody expression. “I don’t,” she hastened to assure him. “Danny’s never stopped me when I go out, but he wants to know what I do or where I go, and… I don’t like lying to him. Since I live with him, it’s hard to get away without some lying. I’d rather keep the lies as small as possible.”

  He was quiet as she put on her velvet gown. “Whatever you desire,” he finally said, coming to his feet. He went out of the room for a minute, reappearing as she was struggling with the tapes. “The carriage will be ready soon,” he said, brushing aside her h
ands to do them up for her. He ran his fingers through her hair, sending a tiny ripple of pleasure through her. “Do you need a comb?”

  “Please.”

  He left the room again and Bathsheba turned around, hunting for her shoes. She caught sight of herself in the mirror above the fireplace, and stopped in shock. She looked so unlike herself; her hair was usually straight as a stick, but now it rippled over her shoulders like some kind of Botticelli goddess’s. Her complexion had a healthy pink flush to it, and even her expression was different—more knowing and relaxed, perhaps, even though she still faced a long drive back home and the gauntlet that might await her there.

  But surely no one could experience so much pleasure and not be affected by it. The memory of it—the tide of euphoria that had flooded her, the giddy feeling of being worshipped by Liam, the hungry cast to his face as he watched her reach the glorious peak—brought a small smile to her face. It might have begun as a business bargain, but for a moment, however fleeting, she and Liam had shared something elemental. Something deep and powerful. Something she couldn’t wait to feel again, the next time they met.

  Liam came back with a comb. He’d put on a banyan over his shirt and trousers, and while she re-braided her hair, he poured himself more wine and sipped it. Without a word he handed her the pins to secure her hair, in a looser knot than before, but close enough to fool Danny.

  “Why do you wear your hair so tightly?” Liam asked.

  She touched it self-consciously. “To keep it out of the way.”

  “Pity,” he murmured. From the hall there came a knock on the door. “That will be the carriage.”

  He walked her out, helping her back into her cloak and waiting while she tied her bonnet ribbons. “Friday,” he said abruptly. “Same time.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “Your dinner engagement…”

  “I’ll cancel it.” He gave his usual sardonic smile. “Can’t have you forgetting what you’ve learned tonight.” He opened the door and picked up a lamp. As promised, the carriage that had brought her was waiting on the gravel drive.

  “What did I learn tonight?” she whispered as they walked out, Liam holding the lamp for her.

  He handed her into the carriage, but leaned through the open door. “How to lose yourself.” He closed the door in her astonished face and rapped on the side of the carriage, which started off at once.

  Bathsheba settled into the seat, feeling off balance again. Perhaps she had lost herself tonight; it hadn’t been what she expected. Her little notebook was completely empty of helpful notes and ideas for her next book. But Liam was willing to cancel a dinner engagement to see her again—what did he plan for lesson two? Something fizzed inside her chest, nervous and excited at the same time. Three days had never sounded so long.

  Liam threw himself into work for the next three days. The evening with Bathsheba—or lesson one, as he kept calling it in his mind—had been more affecting than expected, and he didn’t want to drive himself mad from dwelling on it. He had not expected her to be so passionate, or so willing. But then he would ask himself what he had expected, and there was no answer. Why wouldn’t she be willing, when she proposed the whole exercise? Why shouldn’t she be passionate, given that she knew passion was lacking in her own life, but still craved it?

  But when Friday morning dawned, he washed and dressed with more care than usual and had his valet trim his hair. At the first meeting, he had wanted to learn Bathsheba—what pleased her, what aroused her, how she reacted to him. Tonight he wanted her to learn him. It had sounded like a good plan when he came up with it, but now the thought of Bathsheba stripping him, touching him, putting her mouth on him… It was enough to make him lose his line of thought entirely and send two reporters out on crossed assignments.

  When he closed the office, he headed for Wharton’s Bank, where his accounts were. Unfortunately it was also where Angus was a partner, although Liam was careful never to do business directly with his brother. He saw Niall Wharton instead, handing over a list of the transfers and payments he needed made. Even though Niall was a partner as well—son of the founder, in fact—he and Angus didn’t get on that well. It was enough to assure Liam than Niall would keep his mouth closed around Angus.

  But today Angus must have been idle, because as soon as Liam stepped out of Niall’s office, his brother was there. “Come to hide from all the ladies wanting to seduce you?” he asked with a smirk.

  Liam paused. “Why on earth would I hide from them, rather than from you?”

  Angus scowled. “Admit it, man. No such thing has ever happened to you. I’ve queried every man I know, and not a one has ever had a woman throw up her skirts for him—absent a marriage proposal, that is.”

  “That,” said Liam gravely, “is a reflection of what a sorry lot of mates you have, Angus.”

  “If you’re going to make up rubbish, at least make up a description.” Angus followed him through the bank, like a dog after a bone. “It cannot be that lovely blonde you met here from time to time.”

  “You know it’s not.” Liam smirked at the mention of Madeline Wilde. “She’s married another man, and I assure you, I was never more than a business partner to her.” Although one might have said the same of Bathsheba, until a few days ago.

  That seemed to calm Angus. “Of course not! She’s a beauty, that one, but a wee bit cold. Although, it surely couldn’t have been business alone on your mind, all those times you met her here…”

  “It was,” returned Liam evenly. “Her husband owned part of my newspaper. When he died, it became hers. I meet her to disclose information about her share of the Intelligencer.” And also to collect the gossip column she wrote for him, under strictest secrecy. Liam didn’t know if that arrangement would endure much longer, as Madeline had recently married Douglas Bennet, heir to a wealthy baronet and one of the most notorious, though eligible, men in London. Liam had never tried to woo Madeline—her first husband had been more of a brother to him than Angus, so it would have been like seducing his sister-in-law—but he was not surprised at all that a rakehell like Bennet would set his sights on her. He was surprised that Madeline had fallen for Bennet, but one never could tell with women when it came to love. Even Bathsheba might be susceptible to it, if the right man were to take aim at her.

  Angus harrumphed. “You’re a bloody liar. You never thought of it: ha! Now you claim women all over London are offering you a tumble, but you can’t even say what they look like. Bloody liar,” he repeated for good measure.

  Liam stopped and made a show of glancing around, as if for privacy. “Hair like silk,” he said, so quietly Angus had to lean closer. “Long and wavy, and when she’s wearing nothing else…” He inhaled meaningfully. “Eyes warm and inviting. Skin as soft as a peach. And a mouth that would make your brain cease working, when you imagine it touching yours.”

  Angus was barely breathing. “No…”

  Liam smiled and touched the brim of his hat. “Good day, Angus.” He walked out, reveling at leaving his older brother speechless. There was no good reason for Angus to be so interested in Liam’s love affairs; Angus had a fiancée, a perfectly respectable woman called Miss Lachlan whose mother was one of Mrs. MacGregor’s dear friends. Unfortunately Miss Lachlan’s father had died two weeks before their planned wedding this past spring, so the marriage had been postponed until after her mourning was finished. Angus must be feeling ill-natured because he ought to have had his own woman to bed by now, but didn’t. The Lachlans were rather pious people and Miss Lachlan wanted to observe a full year for her father.

  Which was a terrible pity for poor Angus, but not Liam’s problem. He hailed a hackney and gave the direction of his little house in the village of St. John’s Wood. He’d bought it for privacy, and because it was more affordable to live so far from town. It was also something of a secret; all his correspondence went to the Intelligencer offices or to Wharton’s Bank, and he lived quietly, even reclusively, avoiding the few neighbors. Ton
ight that seemed like a brilliant decision.

  He’d left orders that morning with his housekeeper, and arrived home to find everything ready. A cold plate of dinner was waiting under a cloth in the dining room, and the servants had taken their night out. He ate and then strolled through the house, viewing it critically. The sofa in the parlor had proved adequate, but he wanted to keep Bathsheba off guard. He thought of what he had in mind for her second lesson and realized he was staring at the long, wide chaise in his small library. It was extremely comfortable for reading, with his feet propped up and a pillow behind his back. He wouldn’t be reading tonight…but this would suit him perfectly. Smiling, he went to fetch the wine.

  Chapter Six

  Friday threw Bathsheba into a crisis unlike any she had ever suffered before: one of fashion.

  For three days she had successfully put her “lessons” from her mind. Despite the lack of notes, her writing had been almost frantically inspired this week. She’d written close to fifty pages of her next tale, and they were rather high quality pages if she did say so herself. Far from growing dull or routine, her heroine’s encounter felt daring and charged. Never had writing been so easy or so exhilarating. She would have to consider taking a lover more often, as it appeared to have refreshed her entire creative spirit.

  But on Friday she had to confront one point that had nagged at her those three days. She did not have an attractive dress. Why this mattered, she wasn’t sure, but Liam’s derision of her brown velvet began to assume unreasonable importance in her mind. It didn’t matter if he found her attractive or well-dressed, she tried to tell herself. She’d only take off the dress soon after she arrived, and it could offend no one lying on a chair. But she still found herself scowling into her wardrobe, irrationally distressed that all her clothes were practical and plain.

  “Are you going out again?” asked Mary, hovering in the doorway.