by Darcy Burke
At the edge of ruin…
Ambrose listened intently for any sound from the corridor. He held his breath waiting to see if they would be discovered. After all their near misses to be found here in an indefensibly incriminating position…
She exhaled and it sounded like a cannon blast. He brought his gloved finger to her mouth and pressed it against her lips. Now her breath sucked in, albeit much more quietly. He tried not to think of the heat of her mouth seeping through his glove or the gust of her breath against his finger. And he fought the urge to slide that finger into her mouth in the faint hope she might suckle it…
Finally, muted voices came from outside the door. He couldn’t hear what they said, but only because his senses were full of Philippa—her lilac-honey scent, the warmth of her body so close to his, the sound of her soft breathing, quickening with each beat of her heart, signaling that her desire—like his—was climbing.
The voices continued, but he was having a hard time concentrating on anything but Philippa’s proximity. Because of the tight space, he stood so close to her that if he just inched forward—and as he thought it, he did it—her breasts would be pressed against him.
He closed his eyes in ecstasy. This was the closest he’d been to a woman in five years. His previous kisses with Philippa notwithstanding.
Instead of retreating as he might have expected, she leaned into him. And then she somehow read his mind—at least partially. She pressed her lips to his finger.
He stifled a groan as he cupped the side of her face and slid his palm down to her collarbone. Her heart beat strong and fast there, and the hot silk of her flesh burned through his glove.
Kissing her was out of the question. It would only lead to God-knew-what, and he couldn’t go there with her. But that didn’t stop him from lowering his head and inhaling the scent of her hair. He brushed his cheek against hers and bit his tongue lest it dart out and trace a path to her ear, down her neck, then lower to the edge of her bodice.
She nudged her cheek against him and breathed a single word, “Ambrose.”
He was a mass of dry, brittle wood and she was the flame that would burn him to the ground.
Also by Darcy Burke
Her Wicked Ways
His Wicked Heart
Praise for Darcy Burke
“A bad girl heroine steals both the show and a highwayman's heart in Darcy Burke's deliciously wicked debut.”
–Courtney Milan, New York Times Bestselling Author
“Captivating and romantic. Miranda is my favorite kind of heroine--witty, resourceful, and a little bit wicked--and I loved Fox for loving her as I much as I did.”
–Jackie Barbosa, Award-Winning Author
“…a delightful romance mixed with humor, tenderness and love.”
–Rogues Under the Covers
“…fast paced, very sexy, with engaging characters.”
–Smexybooks
“Sexy and wonderfully romantic. Her Wicked Ways is a debut every fan of historical romance should add to their to-be-read pile!”
–The Season
“FANTASTIC characters…totally recommend this delightful Regency romance…”
–Romancing the Book
“What a wonderful debut! Highly entertaining…the pages sizzle with sexual tension.”
–Forever Book Lover
“Intense and intriguing. Cinderella meets Fight Club in a historical romance packed with passion, action and secrets.”
–Anna Campbell, Seven Nights in a Rogue’s Bed
“A romance that is going to make you smile and sigh…a wonderful read!”
–Rogues Under the Covers
“Darcy Burke pulls no punches with this sexy, romantic page-turner. Sevrin and Philippa's story grabs you from the first scene and doesn't let go. To Seduce a Scoundrel is simply delicious!”
–Tessa Dare, New York Times Bestselling Author
“An enthralling tale of adventure, passion and redemption. At times humorous and at times deeply touching, the tension sizzles between Phillipa and Sevrin. With the Fight Club element, To Seduce A Scoundrel is a unique tale with a sexy hero you will never forget.”
–Leigh LaValle, The Runaway Countess
To Seduce A Scoundrel
By Darcy Burke
Nook Edition
Copyright © 2012 Darcy Burke
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0985455829
ISBN-13: 978-0-9854558-2-8
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Book design © Darcy Burke.
Cover design © Hot Damn Designs.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
For Jedgie, because you’re a fighter.
Acknowledgements
This book would not have been possible without the awesome power of the annual Northwest Pixie Writing Retreat. I don’t know what’s in the water there (or whatever else we’re imbibing), but the words sure flow! Thank you Linda, Kristina, Rachel, Courtney, Becky, Cathy, Kris, Natasha, Joan, and Elisabeth.
I am incredibly blessed with the greatest critique partners in the known universe: Erica Ridley, Lacey Kaye, and Janice Goodfellow. Each of you offers something unique and I could not do any of this without you.
Thank you Jim McCarthy for providing amazing editorial feedback. You knew exactly what needed to happen (or rather, not happen) to make this book sizzle.
I’ve been very fortunate to be part of a wonderful community of people who have eagerly followed my writing career and who have been nothing short of spectacular in their support. Special thank you to the ladies at ARE, Leslie and Ann. You make me smile on lousy days and for that, you deserve a medal. Hugs to my other ARE “fans,” but really I’m YOUR fan: Tina, Jen, Julie, Robyn, Rebecca, Karmin, Erin, and Laura. Thank you for touching my family’s lives in the best way possible.
My family’s perseverance in the face of my writing-induced-insanity is nothing short of miraculous. Thank you for supporting me, encouraging me, and most of all, loving me. I do all of this for you.
Chapter One
London, April 1818
FROM the comfort of the Herrick coach, Lady Philippa Latham watched her mother alight from Mr. Booth-Barrows’ carriage in front of a massive neo-classical house on Saville Street. Booth-Barrows tucked Mother’s hand over his arm and they climbed the steps of the townhouse, their heads bent close together. Like lovers.
Philippa seethed. Loveless marriage or no, how dare Mother openly cuckold Father? And only days after she’d informed Philippa she must marry this season. How was she to accomplish that while her mother was cavorting about town with a man who wasn’t her husband?
Philippa clasped her fingers tightly around the door handle, and before she knew her own mind, she was stepping from the coach. The footman leaped to help her.
With murmured appreciation and a directive to wait until she returned, she dashed across the moonlit street. Nervous energy propelled her along her mother’s path. Philippa had never done anything so rash before, but she was intent on convincing Mother to come home immediately.
A black and silver liveried footman opened the front door, and Philippa stepped into a cavernous marble entry. But instead of her mother, other guests, or some sort of receiving line, she found emptiness punctuated by the gentle swell of conversation and muted laughter coming from
a chamber on the opposite side of the foyer.
“Would you care for a cloak?”
Philippa turned toward a second footman who held up a voluminous black cloak, complete with a large hood. She frowned. Why on earth would she want to wear a cloak inside? “No, thank you.” Puzzled, she turned from the footman and squared her shoulders.
Head high, she strode across the gleaming marble and did her best to appear as if she belonged, though she’d no idea whose house she’d invaded. Not that she cared, so long as she found her mother and took her home. While it was true some women had liaisons outside of their marriage, her mother shouldn’t be one of them. Not after twenty-two years of insisting upon propriety and respectability above all else. Philippa’s outrage bubbled anew.
She paused at the threshold to the large, dimly lit room beyond the foyer. It was crowded with people. Masked people. Faint tendrils of trepidation curled in her chest.
She stepped into the room, seeking her mother’s peacock blue gown. In the center, a woman stood on a table in nothing but her chemise and garters. Philippa gaped, completely unprepared for such a shocking display.
She spun about, clenching her teeth. Curse her impulsivity, which she rarely indulged. How fitting that on her first foray she’d stumbled into precisely the impropriety her mother had warned against. And how ironic that she’d done so in pursuit of Mother.
A man clasped her elbow. “Lady Philippa.” The whisper came next to her ear and sent a shiver down her neck.
Philippa jumped. She turned her head to look at the man, but a dark mask covered the upper half of his face. Panic rooted in her belly. “How do you know who I am?”
He dragged her to the side of the room, deeper into the shadows, and pressed her against the wall. The edge of the wainscoting dug into her lower back. Then he stepped close. Too close. He put his hands up behind his head. “Quickly, take my mask.” He worked another moment then muttered, “Bloody hell, the tie is knotted.”
She didn’t know what sort of event she’d stumbled into, but clearly it was wicked, and the only thing standing between her and certain ruin was—literally—this bold stranger. Right now, she’d take this man’s audacity over discovery.
“Let me.” She stood on her toes, for he was quite tall, and found the knot at the back of his head. He smelled of rosemary and sandalwood, very pleasant.
“Where’d she go?” a male voice behind her rescuer asked. “I saw the loveliest creature, dark hair, pale gown—no mask, if you can imagine. She was just here.”
Her rescuer leaned his head down so that their mouths were a breath apart. If she nudged up the slightest bit, their lips would touch… Her fingers fumbled as she tried to work the knot free.
“Eh, there she is, against the wall.”
Philippa gave up her struggle with the mask and moved her hands to her rescuer’s lapels. She pulled him closer so that her bodice grazed the front of his coat. “Don’t you dare move.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured, his warm breath caressing her mouth.
More shivers. This time dancing down her arms.
He clasped her waist and she would’ve jumped back if the wall behind her had allowed any such movement. “I ought to convince the men behind me you are engaged, ah, with me. Pardon my familiarity, but I do believe kissing you is necessary. You might take the opportunity to continue working at the ties of my mask.”
Before she had time to make sense of anything he’d just told her, his lips met hers.
The pressure of his mouth was warm and soft. She’d been kissed before—a swift brushing of lips that had left her curious—but pressed against a stranger in a dark corner, this was something quite different. Somehow more than just a kiss. A moment later his advice sunk into her befuddled thoughts. The mask.
She lifted her arms, which only served to bring her body up against him rather snugly. His chest pressed against hers in a terribly intimate fashion, while he moved his lips slowly, sensuously over hers. Her sensibilities were scandalized, but her body didn’t care. Her flesh heated, and little whorls of excitement replaced the panic in her belly.
A dissatisfied grunt came from behind her rescuer, followed by, “Someone else got to her first.” Two sets of footsteps trailed away.
She plucked at the ties of the mask, and at last it came loose. He broke the kiss and caught the mask before it fell. Then he turned it around and covered the upper two-thirds of her face. He quickly tied the thin strands around the back of her head. The mask was too large for her, but that only meant it covered more and she wouldn’t complain about that. Not when there were plenty of other things to worry about.
Such as how disappointed she felt that their kiss was over. Ludicrous! She needed to concentrate on getting out of there without being identified. “You recognized me immediately. I suppose it’s too much to hope no one else did.” She tested the knot at the back of her head and was satisfied it wouldn’t come loose even as she feared it didn’t matter. Though the other men hadn’t referred to her by name, her heretofore pristine reputation would be ruined if any of them had discerned her identity.
“You aren’t sure if anyone saw you?” The dark timbre of his voice wrapped around her.
The mask tunneled her vision, and even squinting she couldn’t make out his features in the shadowed corner they inhabited. “Just the footmen. One of them offered me a cloak. Oh dear, was that to shield my identity? How was I to know?”
“What were you expecting to find at Lockwood House?” His tone carried a hint of sarcasm.
“Lockwood House?” Dear Lord, she’d marched through the gates of Hell and straight into Lucifer’s bedchamber. “Is this one of those…parties?” She wasn’t even sure what those ‘parties’ were—proper girls like her never would—but she’d heard enough to know that being caught attending one would mean the death of her reputation.
She reined in her shock to indulge her rising panic. “I have to get out of here. Now.”
“I agree.” He took her elbow and turned her toward the door.
They took two steps and then stopped short as a group of people stepped inside. He drew her around and guided her along the perimeter of the room. “Sorry, I’d rather not go out that way, particularly since I’m now without a mask.”
“I’m sorry to have taken yours. It was very kind of you to offer it, Mr…?”
“Sevrin.”
She stumbled as the full reality of her situation permeated her panicked brain. “Lord Sevrin.” She sounded breathless, but the implications to her reputation were disastrous. And perhaps irreversible.
He clasped her waist to steady her. “As usual, I see my reputation has preceded me.”
It most certainly had. Lord Sevrin was nearly as notorious as Lockwood’s parties. He’d famously ruined a girl and refused to marry her, but Philippa recalled there might have been even more to the story.
She took a deep breath to calm her raging nerves. “Why are you helping me?”
He kept his hand at the small of her back, but guided her forward. “You seem in need of assistance. Do correct me if I’m mistaken.”
“You are not. I appreciate your help even if I am bewildered by it.” His touch and his instant recognition gave her an odd sense of familiarity, as if he had been completely aware of her for some time and she’d been oblivious to him. Though she doubted she would ever feel that way again. “How did you even know who I am? We’ve never been introduced.”
“You have a remarkable face, Lady Philippa. I’d wager most men know who you are.” The way he delivered the words—as a matter of fact without an excess of pretty compliments—sparked another smattering of shivers along her flesh.
Sevrin led her to a door tucked neatly into the corner. He opened it for her, and they entered a small sitting room. Also scarcely lit, it was currently occupied by not one, but two couples. Philippa’s heart beat faster. She began to fully understand the nature of the party she’d unwittingly intruded upon.
Sevrin took her hand and pulled her toward a door on the opposite side of the room. “Pardon us,” he murmured.
Though the well-bred miss in her urged her to avert her gaze, she couldn’t help but stare at one of the couples as they passed. The woman was sprawled upon a chaise with her head cast back. A man lay over her, his mouth at her exposed breast. Philippa jerked her gaze away and stared at Sevrin’s back.
The next room was better lit, but it was full of people playing cards. Without masks. Philippa recognized a handful of faces before Sevrin dragged her out onto the balcony. For once, she was glad to be wearing an indistinct, colorless gown reserved for young unwedded misses like herself. She could be one of any of London’s young ladies. Although—and this made her heart hammer even faster—her pale yellow dress could lead anyone to assume she was an unmarried miss. Even that seemingly innocuous bit of information about her identity made her feel anxious.
Once outside, she plastered herself against the cool stone of the house’s exterior. She breathed deeply, hoping her pulse would slow. “Good Lord. I’d no idea of the…depravity of Lockwood’s parties.”
He stood a few feet away. “And you shouldn’t.”
She gestured toward the house in a thoroughly unladylike fashion. “But my mother is here!”
Sevrin’s gaze flicked toward the door they’d just exited. “She is?”
Philippa adjusted the mask, which had drooped over her mouth in her excited exclamation. “I had no idea this was Lockwood House. I followed her.”
His brow creased. “Is there an emergency?”
“I wanted to… that is… No, there’s no emergency.” Except the danger to her reputation.
