The Secret of My Seduction (Scandals Book 7)

by Caroline Linden

  “Yes,” he growled, pumping hard. “Yes—like that—” He ducked his head and kissed her as he drove himself so deep inside her, Bathsheba thought it might tear her apart. But then his tongue was in her mouth, and she strained against him, kissing him back, her trembling arms around his neck as he reached his own release. When he finally lifted his head, she gasped for air, feeling as if she hadn’t taken a breath in minutes.

  “You…you never kissed me before,” she said faintly, her heart still racing.

  “My mistake,” he whispered, brushing his lips against hers before settling in for another long, deep kiss that scattered what little sense she had left.

  He helped her off the floor eventually and carried her to bed, tucking her snugly against him. Bathsheba sank into the fine linens and indulged in a moment of fantasy. I never imagined these lessons in seduction would take such a turn, he said in her imagination. Bathsheba, I don’t want this to end… I love you… No matter how frequently and firmly she had told herself that Liam was only taking what she offered, that men could enjoy a vigorous romp in bed…or on a sofa or on a chaise…and not develop any finer feelings for the woman involved, her wayward heart persisted in trying to spin straw into gold.

  He lingered over her pleasure, saying he wanted to learn her and let her learn him.

  He canceled a dinner engagement to be with her.

  He wanted her to stay all night.

  He kissed her.

  “You were right,” she murmured.

  “Oh?” He sounded amused. “How noble of you to admit it.”

  “Of course I would admit it,” she protested, then added tartly, “once you proved your point, naturally.”

  He laughed, a low relaxed sound. His fingers were combing idly through her hair, and she could have sighed aloud at how like a lover it was. “Which point?”

  She hesitated. Her cheek was against his shoulder, his arm beneath her head. “Your way was superior.”

  His fingers slowed, then resumed stroking her hair. “I’m delighted you agreed to try it.”

  How could she not? Bathsheba felt the end of their interlude approaching; this would likely be the last night. Her fingers curled into a fist against his bare chest, where she could feel the steady thump of his heart, still rapid after their lovemaking.

  But it didn’t beat for her.

  “Why did you want me to stay?” she asked to divert her mind from that. It would spoil the whole night, this lone magical night she had with him.

  His fingers paused. “Because,” he finally said, very slowly, “seduction is more than the physical act, whether that act be ‘brisk and efficient’ or leisurely and thorough. I felt you deserved the full range.”

  “Then, there will be more tonight?” She honestly didn’t know what else he could mean to teach her. Her limbs already were like jelly and she felt the most blissful exhaustion of her life.

  Liam was quiet for a long moment. He tipped up her chin until she met his gaze. She had never seen that expression in his eyes before—searching, almost wary, and full of urgency. “Do you not want more?”

  Her face burned. She did—she wanted so much more, the words themselves were too big to speak. For a moment the question seemed to burn in the air, the fulcrum on which her life might turn. She had admired Liam—wanted Liam—from the start, but now she’d gone and fallen hopelessly in love with him. If she told him…

  “I planned on an entire night,” he added. “The carriage won’t return for you until morning.”

  She blushed, relieved that he’d spoken before she could blurt out her adoration. He referred only to tonight—that answer was easier. “Yes.”

  Chapter Ten

  She woke in the night, disoriented and cold. For a moment Bathsheba lay still in alarmed confusion; the blankets had fallen off, but why was she naked? She groped for the covers and encountered Liam’s bare chest.

  She went still, her fingers still brushing his skin. He was warm and firm and so male. Her ideal male. She had expected a night of lovemaking, but he’d given her more: not just physical pleasure but emotional pleasure as well. Bathsheba didn’t have many close friends. The trials of daily life, coupled with the swings in her fortunes, had left little time for friends. At times she wondered if she even knew how to let down her guard with others. It was strange, then, how she felt so at ease with Liam.

  Bathsheba laid her hand against his chest and felt the steady thump of his heart. His heart might not be hers, but she had learned to take what life offered her. And if this interlude with Liam was all she got, she would save up every moment in her memory.

  He stirred at her touch. “Too early,” he muttered, reaching for her. Bathsheba let him draw her close and tug the blankets over both of them.

  “It’s almost dawn,” she whispered.

  His lips brushed the back of her neck. “Almost doesn’t count.”

  She smiled. “It’s a long drive back to London. I dare not linger.”

  “You’ll be home before the street lamps are put out, even if you lie here another hour.”

  “Is that so?” He growled a sleepy affirmation. Outside the window a thrush called, the sound sweet and clear in the night. One didn’t hear that in Totman Street. “Why do you live so far from town?” she asked on impulse.

  He shifted, settling her more comfortably against him. His voice was a drowsy rumble, but he answered readily. “It’s quiet here. My father told me land was the best investment. And if I lived in London my mother would come to call on me all the time, which would be untenable. All in all, it’s perfect.”

  “You bought this house to avoid your mother?”

  He grunted. “Of course not. I dine with her every Sunday, discuss the latest gossip, endure my brother’s company—and then I leave. If she came to call at my home, manners would prevent me from leaving.”

  Bathsheba’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “I don’t believe you!”

  “No?” He kissed her neck. “Perhaps you’re right. My manners aren’t fine enough to keep me from leaving. But my mother is persistent; odds are she would follow, even if I claimed the Intelligencer was burning to the ground at that moment. I would know no peace.”

  He dined with his mother every Sunday. Bathsheba’s mother had died nearly ten years ago. A wistful smile curved her lips, and she was glad he couldn’t see it. “So you fled.”

  “For my own preservation,” he agreed. “It took me twenty years to realize it, but my mother always gets her way. She looks harmless and sweet, but she’s relentless. Kings would quail before her. My brother and I had no chance, but, being by far the cleverer of us, I escaped to St. John’s Wood.”

  Her smile faded. “Danny used to say I was relentless,” she said in a low voice. “When he came home from the war.”

  “I expect if you were, it was for his own good.”

  “It was,” she agreed. “He needed it. But I felt like an awful scold.” She half turned her head. “I had to be, to save us both from being cast on the parish or thrown into the Fleet.”

  “And you did, so you have nothing to regret.”

  “Perhaps.” She hesitated. “I worried over what my parents would think. My mother would have wanted me to marry Henry the grocer, no matter how cold the marriage would have been. He’s a good man, you know, and it would have provided security.”

  His arms tightened around her. “Rubbish. She would have wanted you to sell yourself into marital servitude? Even if she did, you had every right to reject that for yourself.”

  “You think so?”

  “Of course,” he said, sounding mildly surprised. “Why shouldn’t you? It is your life; it was your decision. If I’d followed what my father wanted me to do, I would be adding up columns in the bank office, with my brain withered away to nothing.”

  Her eyes widened. “A banker?”

  “Noxious, isn’t it?” His laugh rumbled deep in his chest. “I fled from the prospect as if the hangman were after me. But I do con
fess, if the Intelligencer hadn’t trafficked in so much gossip—my mother’s fascination—I’m sure she would have badgered me to follow his example. So in a way, I fended off both of them.”

  She turned over and went up on her elbows to look down at him. The steel gray of dawn gave just enough light for her to make out his features, relaxed and so handsome, it made her chest hurt. “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true.” He gave a lazy grin. “How dare you impugn my honesty.”

  “No!” She laughed and shook her head. “I don’t believe you were ever terrified or intimidated by your mother. You’re impervious. You do exactly as you wish, and don’t care a fig for anyone’s opinion of you.”

  “You think not?” His grin lingered, but his gaze was more thoughtful. “Everyone cares for someone else’s opinion—even if only one person’s. No one is impervious.”

  “You give every appearance of it,” she told him.

  “Well.” He pulled her against him. “Let me disabuse you of that notion.” He rolled over her, nuzzling her neck until she laughed, and then there was no more conversation.

  He walked her to the carriage an hour later. It was early, the sky pale gold and the ground dewy. The roses were in bloom, and in the brief moment when Liam turned to hand her valise to the coachman, Bathsheba thought it was the most perfect day of all time. On impulse, she flung her arms around Liam’s neck when he turned back to her.

  “Thank you,” she breathed.

  He caught her, his hands on her back. “For what, specifically?”

  She kissed him. “For everything,” she said softly. “It was all I hoped for and more.” Bathsheba gave a tremulous smile. “You fulfilled our bargain perfectly,” she said, reminding herself that this was important to clarify.

  “Our bargain,” he echoed, suddenly serious. “Bathsheba, that bargain—”

  A shout made them both start. A horse was trotting down the lane toward them, a gentleman in tweed on his back. Liam swore under his breath as Bathsheba froze. Her heart kicked painfully hard; she didn’t want anyone to see her leaving Liam’s house at dawn, no doubt looking as though she’d spent the night in debauched pleasure.

  “Damn it,” said Liam under his breath. He yanked open the carriage door. “You’d better go.”

  She yanked up the hood of her cloak. “Yes.” She was already jumping in, keeping her head down. “Good-bye.”

  He didn’t even reply, merely closed the carriage door and barked at the coachman to drive. Bathsheba huddled well away from the window, keeping her face hidden. The rider openly stared as the carriage passed him, but she turned away, holding her breath until the carriage was well past him.

  Who had come to call on Liam so early in the morning? Had he seen her well enough to identify her? And by all the saints, could he be trusted not to spread rumors that would ruin her?

  Liam forced himself to keep his eyes on his brother and not on the carriage carrying Bathsheba away. He wanted to curse in frustration at the timing of the interruption, spoiling the moment when he was about to confess to Bathsheba that he’d stopped thinking of that bloody bargain a long time ago. He should have told her last night, but like a coward he’d put it off. In the morning, he’d told himself, he would tell her, and even hint that his heart was engaged. Liam had never told a woman he loved her, and it had seemed like a sound plan to work toward that moment gradually.

  But somehow all the hours of the night had sped by, with Bathsheba in his bed, in his arms, burrowing into his very soul. And now she was gone, before he managed to find the right moment to speak, and his rotter of a brother was here, which did nothing to help his temper.

  “What do you want, Angus?”

  His brother swung off his horse, his face alive with interest. “Is that the woman who threw herself at you? The one who tossed up her own skirts for you?”

  “None of your affair,” Liam bit out. “What do you want?”

  Angus swiveled on one heel to peer after the departing carriage, then back. “It was, wasn’t it? Quite the devil, aren’t you?” Grinning like a fiend, he punched Liam in the shoulder. “I didn’t get a good look, but she appeared a fetching little woman.” He made a show of looking Liam up and down. “And I see you’re just out of bed, so she must have many charms!”

  Liam glared at him. He’d dressed quickly and haphazardly, not intending to see or be seen by anyone except Bathsheba. “If you rode out here at dawn trying to catch me in an assignation—”

  “If I did, then it worked!” Angus roared with laughter. “No, I was entirely sure you were lying about that and had no thought you’d be rushing her out the door. Is she married? You’d better hope her husband’s a careless fellow, or too big a fool to notice his wife is letting you plow her field.”

  Liam had his brother’s cravat in his hand before the last word. “Stop there,” he snarled. “Not one bloody word to anyone about her, do you hear me?”

  Angus blinked, shocked, but still enjoying Liam’s anger too much. “Why should I? It’s not my place to spoil your amour…” He paused, looking sly. “Although you’d better be more discreet about it, if you want to keep her a secret.”

  “Perhaps I’ll hire guards to patrol my property and shoot anyone who trespasses.” He shoved Angus away and turned toward the house. “Go away.”

  “But I came to tell you John Winston is leading a shooting party on the heath today,” Angus said, dogging his heels. “He spied a flock of geese. Will you come, or have you had too much sport today?”

  Liam stopped, not needing to turn around to know Angus wore a wide, toothy grin. “No.”

  “Worn you to a nub, has she?” Angus chortled again. “Drained you dry? I confess, my curiosity about this woman grows and grows.”

  “And as is so often the case, you are destined to remain ignorant.” Liam paused in the doorway. “And if you tell Winston aught of her, you’ll regret it.”

  Something in his tone must have finally penetrated his brother’s glee. The smug look faded from Angus’s face. “What—you don’t say—”

  “If you gossip about my personal affairs, I beg you to remember I own a newspaper.”

  Angus drew up in affront. “There’s no call for that. Have I got it wrong? Have you got a wealthy widow on the line, being reeled in one bedroom romp at a time?”

  Liam stared at him. “No wonder you’re a banker. You’ve got bollocks for brains.”

  A cunning smile returned to his brother’s face. “No? A Covent Garden whore? Don’t say it—an aspiring newspaper writer, looking to see her name in print?”

  He took a deep breath and let it out, counting to twenty as he did so. “Angus,” he said, “Go home. Tell Winston I’ve no desire to go shooting today. Then pay a call upon Miss Lachlan and tell her you’re going out of your wits without her. Get down on your knee and beg her to end her mourning early and set a date for the wedding. Then you’ll have your own amour to entertain you.” He spat out the word amour with disdain.

  “I say.” Angus looked offended. “There’s no reason to bring her into this—”

  “If you want to pick apart my romantic life, I’m perfectly capable of returning the favor.”

  His brother’s eyes narrowed. “Quite defensive.” He cocked his head in the direction of the long-since departed carriage. “She’s not a whore, is she, nor some married lady looking for a spot of fun.”

  Liam was quiet for a minute. Bathsheba was none of that, nor was she any of the other things Angus had suggested. She was his friend, his partner, his lover—all by her own initiative. That had been niggling at him for a while, and finally here and now it condensed. It was time for him to take some initiative, if he wanted more. “No.”

  Slowly Angus shook his head. The humor had fled from his face and he looked almost pitying. “Then you’re done for, lad. As your older and much wiser brother, I regret to inform you that the only way that sort of affair can end well is if you marry her.”

  Chapter Eleven
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  For several days Bathsheba pondered the etiquette of ending an affair.

  On one hand, since it had been essentially a business arrangement between them, perhaps she ought to send a note of thanks. But on the other hand, her mind went completely blank at the thought of writing anything that came close to conveying her feelings about the nights spent with Liam. She considered writing to remind him of their mutual vow of discretion, but worried that would be insulting and pointless. If he had decided to tell his friends, her caution would mean little to him. Indecision bedeviled her until so much time had passed, it would seem stranger to send a letter than not to, so she wrote nothing, and instantly began worrying that it was a mistake.

  She had no excuse or reason to see Liam. She returned to work on her next story, the words flowing smoothly, but somehow with far less delight than before. Her days settled back into an ordinary rhythm, the same as always and yet somehow utterly different. Danny’s work in Greenwich was demanding, and he was gone more often than he was home. Even when he was home he spent most of his time printing or at the bindery. On the rare nights they dined together, he was very reluctant to talk about his client. Bathsheba put together that the client was a wealthy widow, quite demanding and exacting, and it caused her a pang of worry that her brother was taking on such onerous work to provide for them. Perhaps she ought to tell him about Lady X. The stories had earned her a nice sum…but hardly enough to put all their financial worries to rest. And if Danny knew what she had done in the interest of research, he would be furious.

  She was plodding through a scene one morning when her maid tapped at the door. “Mr. MacGregor to see you, ma’am,” said Mary.

  Bathsheba’s pen skittered across the paper, leaving a blotchy trail of ink behind it. What was he doing here? Why would he come? Merciful heavens, what if Danny came home?

  Trying to still the trembling of her fingers, she put the pen down and blotted all that wasted ink. “I’ll be right down,” she told her maid. “Show him into the parlor.”