To Seduce A Scoundrel

by Darcy Burke

  Their father had wanted to build a new manor house, but the estate hadn’t been profitable enough to undertake such a project. Ambrose hadn’t accepted that. Why couldn’t they make it profitable? He’d returned from Oxford with plans for increasing their sheep herd and thus their wool production. He’d done a decent job too, but regrettably their father hadn’t lived to see it. He’d died while Ambrose was at school. Nigel—the new viscount—however, had stood by and watched while Ambrose single-handedly turned the estate around.

  Single-handedly.

  Why hadn’t he ever solicited Nigel’s input? Why had he been so eager to manage everything himself? Because their father—a man Ambrose had admired—had always encouraged him. “Ambrose, you’re the future of Beckwith.” He’d even gone so far as to say, “You should’ve been the heir. If only the fever that took your mother had taken…” He hadn’t uttered the rest, but the meaning had been clear. If the fever had claimed Nigel, he would’ve been spared his sickly, wretched existence.

  But not even that was wholly accurate. Nigel had been sickly, but not wretched. He’d been fairly ineffectual at Beckwith, but when their father died, he’d been eager to take up his position in the House of Lords. Not that Ambrose had minded—he’d been happy to have Nigel remove himself to London, thus leaving Ambrose in total control of Beckwith. Just as Ambrose had always expected.

  Until Nigel had returned with a new attitude—that he would run Beckwith. To everyone’s surprise, he’d also brought a fiancée, the overtly flirtatious daughter of a merchant, Lettice Chandler. Upset with his brother’s sudden desire to remove Ambrose from his managerial position, Ambrose had returned Lettice’s attentions. Nigel had taken Ambrose’s birthright—or what he’d been led to believe was his birthright—and Ambrose had selfishly sought revenge.

  Because Lettice was staying at Beckwith, their affair was easy to conduct. And she hadn’t been an unschooled virgin. In fact, she’d drawn him to most of the places in which they’d had sex—sometimes within earshot of the servants. When her advances became bolder—touching Ambrose overlong at the dinner table, casting openly admiring glances, accompanying him on his afternoon rides—Nigel grew suspicious. Ambrose knew the affair needed to end, and indeed he’d grown rather tired of the game. But he’d indulged himself one last time, and Nigel had paid for it.

  One afternoon, Ambrose and Lettice planned to ride out to one of their favorite spots, a vacant cottage on the periphery of Beckwith’s property. As they’d left the house, Nigel had watched them progress across the keep to the stables. Uneasy, Ambrose had suggested Lettice remain at Beckwith, but she’d cajoled and promised a sinfully decadent afternoon. She’d convinced him Nigel didn’t know, and even if he did, why would he care? Unlike Ambrose, he hadn’t shown the slightest interest in bedding her, a fact that made Lettice pout. Furthermore, it was unlikely Nigel would follow them. He rarely rode because he’d never mastered the sport.

  In the end, Ambrose hadn’t been able to disappoint her—or his prick—and they’d set out for the cottage. Immersed in her skillful ministrations, Ambrose hadn’t heard his brother arrive on horseback. When the cottage door opened and revealed Nigel’s devastated countenance, Ambrose had shriveled both inside and out. He practically shoved Lettice from where she knelt before him and drew on his breeches before following his brother outside.

  Thinking back, he was more horrified than ever at his cavalier behavior. He’d always done as he pleased—such as managing Beckwith—and Nigel had let him. Until Nigel had returned from London intent on fulfilling his role as viscount, which meant taking control of Beckwith away from Ambrose. Ambrose had been more than angry; he’d been out for revenge. And Lettice had given him the perfect avenue.

  Though he might not have done it if Lettice hadn’t made it so easy. Not to diminish his fault in the matter, but refusing her would have required self-discipline, as well as a will to ignore his impulses that Ambrose simply hadn’t possessed. He’d wanted her. She’d wanted him. Nothing and no one else had mattered.

  Nigel’s hurt and outrage had satisfied the part of Ambrose that was jealous of his brother’s position. However, remorse quickly worked its way into Ambrose’s mind. He’d tried to assuage Nigel by assuring him Lettice meant nothing to him. That had only made things worse, prompting Nigel to respond, “She means something to me and that’s why you did it.”

  And then the most shocking thing of all had happened. Nigel had pulled a gun from his saddle bag. He’d pointed it at Ambrose. “You think I’m stupid. As weak-minded as I am weak-bodied. But I guessed the truth. I came here to demand satisfaction.”

  Ambrose had shaken his head. “I don’t have a pistol.”

  “Then I’ll just shoot you.”

  “You wouldn’t. Please, stop for a moment, Nigel.”

  He’d fired. Searing pain had exploded in Ambrose’s shoulder, driving him to his knees. Nigel had rushed forward, his face paling as he realized what he’d done. Then a scream had sounded from behind Ambrose. Nigel had looked beyond Ambrose, and his features had hardened into a mask of despair. Lettice had donned clothing and ran to Ambrose’s side.

  Ambrose could see the scene as if it played before him now. Nigel had wiped his hand across his nose—an achingly familiar action Ambrose recalled from their childhood—and turned. Only he hadn’t gone to his horse—a placid mare. He’d gone to Ambrose’s horse, Orpheus, awkwardly mounted, and set off at a reckless pace.

  Struggling to his feet, Ambrose had called after him to stop. Nigel couldn’t handle Orpheus. Lettice had begged Ambrose to come into the cottage so she could see to his wound. Hot blood flowed over his shoulder, down his chest and arm, but he hadn’t cared. He’d raced to Lettice’s mount, because it was faster than the mare Nigel had ridden.

  Garbed in only his breeches and dripping blood, Ambrose had chased after his brother. Nigel had tried to ride fast, but Ambrose was quickly upon him. Nigel turned back and yelled something. He never saw the branch that swept him from Orpheus’s back. Or the rock that broke his skull.

  Shaking, Ambrose shook the memory from his head and stared at the massive façade of Beckwith’s manor house. Then he jabbed Ackley in the knee. “We’re here.”

  Ambrose climbed from the carriage. No one was waiting for them in the drive, but then he hadn’t notified anyone he was coming. Not his steward, not his housekeeper, no one.

  Regardless of that, the door of the house opened. His housekeeper, Mrs. Oldham, a slender woman just entering middle age stepped forth, her mobcap impeccable, her apron starched and white. She watched him warily but didn’t advance.

  He’d been certain of the welcome he would receive. Everyone despised him for what he’d done. Not only because Nigel had died, but because Ambrose had evicted Lettice from Beckwith without thought to her reputation or welfare.

  Mrs. Oldham had been the most disappointed. She’d spoiled and fussed over Ambrose and Nigel their entire lives. That Ambrose had destroyed their family with his selfish behavior was unconscionable, and his treatment of Lettice had only sealed his fate. Mrs. Oldham had—justifiably so—consigned him to hell.

  He was a blackguard, but he wasn’t a coward. At least not about this. Throwing his shoulders back, he went to stand before the housekeeper. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Oldham. It’s good to see you.”

  She blinked up at him. The day was bright and warm. He’d forgotten how fair Cornwall was compared to London. “Master Ambrose? I mean to say, my lord.” She dipped a curtsey.

  He’d scarcely been Lord Sevrin before he’d gone. A fortnight after Nigel had been laid in the churchyard, Ambrose had gone to London.

  Not knowing what to say, Ambrose pivoted and gestured for Ackley to come forward. “This is Mr. Ackley. He’ll be staying with us.”

  She glanced at Ackley and dipped another curtsey. “Mr. Ackley.” Tentatively, she returned her gaze to Ambrose. “For how long, my lord? That is, how long do you plan to be in residence?”

  The prizefight was i
n a little more than a fortnight. “Three weeks at most.”

  “I don’t have rooms prepared, but it won’t take long. Would you care to come into the solar for refreshment?”

  “Yes, thank you. Will you let Fisher know I’m here?”

  His steward would be shocked to see him. They corresponded regularly. Fisher often requested Ambrose return—at least for a short visit—but Ambrose always ignored that portion of Fisher’s letters.

  Mrs. Oldham nodded. She started to turn, but paused. “It’s good to see you too, my lord.” Then she disappeared into the house.

  Ambrose walked inside. Nostalgia assailed him and slowed his pace. The entry hall contained a portrait of his mother. Beautiful and serene, she gazed down at him. He scarcely remembered her, but he remembered this portrait. Nigel, four years his elder, had told him stories of her grace and sense of humor. She’d played soldiers with him and read him books in a variety of accented voices. Nigel had imitated her accents, often sending Ambrose into fits of giggles. He couldn’t look at that portrait without thinking of Nigel.

  His throat burning, he turned from the portrait and strode into the great hall, which served as an interior drawing room. The stairs to the second floor were situated at one end. Beyond the great hall was the solar. Three hundred years ago it had been the master’s bedchamber, but now it was a comfortable sitting room used by the family for intimate occasions. Wide windows faced the former keep and the bay beyond. The view was breathtaking. He was pleased to see how well the gardens inside the keep had been maintained. Indeed, everything looked precisely as he remembered it.

  Including the portrait of his father over the fireplace. Looking at that provoked an even stronger reaction than the portrait in the hall. Whereas Ambrose only remembered his mother via Nigel, he’d shared a close and loving relationship with his father. A relationship that now made him feel sick. Father had said Ambrose would be the heir, and as a boy Ambrose hadn’t realized for that to happen Nigel would have to die.

  “Sevrin, did I hear your housekeeper mention refreshment?”

  Ambrose startled. He’d forgotten Ackley. “Yes. Ale or something stronger?”

  “Whatever’s convenient.” Ackley went to stand before the windows. “You grew up here? Can’t imagine why you left.”

  Nor would Ambrose enlighten him. He went to the sideboard on the right wall and found a bottle of whisky. It looked familiar. Had anyone touched these bottles except to remove the dust?

  He uncorked it and poured a glass then handed it to Ackley.

  Ackley accepted the drink. “Are we starting today?”

  Their trip had taken just four days due to favorable road conditions and cooperative weather. During the journey, they’d participated in a raucous fight in the yard of an inn, resulting in a fresh black eye for Ackley.

  “We’ll start tomorrow. Give your eye a day to heal.”

  Ackley nodded. “That tonic of Tom’s is dead useful though.”

  That it was. Ambrose thought of the Black Horse. He’d left Hopkins in charge of the club. Though he’d been disappointed not to make the journey with them, he was pleased to manage things while Ambrose was gone.

  “Where will we practice?” Ackley asked before sipping his whisky.

  Ambrose had given this some thought. There was a tower at the end of the manor house built into the corner of the keep. Though it hadn’t been updated with the house, its rooms were in serviceable condition, and there was a large chamber on the first floor that would suit their needs. “The southwest tower.”

  “Gor, this is a real castle.”

  “It was.” Ambrose gave him a brief history of the building, and then Mrs. Oldham arrived with a footman.

  “I’m afraid we don’t have a butler to show you to your rooms,” she said.

  Their butler had died three years prior, and Ambrose hadn’t seen the point in replacing him. No one was in residence, nor did anyone visit. In fact, the entire house was run with minimum staff. Belatedly he wondered if his unannounced arrival was a hardship. He silently chastised himself. Ever the selfish ass.

  “Whatever you’ve arranged will be more than satisfactory,” Ambrose said. “I must commend you on the state of Beckwith. You’ve kept things beautifully, Mrs. Oldham.”

  “Let’s see if you still say that after you take a tour.” She paused, her gaze sharpening in question. “If you want to take a tour, that is.”

  “I shall. Tomorrow.” He gestured toward the young man beside her. “Can this footman, ah…?”

  “Ned,” Mrs. Oldham supplied.

  Her son? How he’d grown in five years. Ambrose remembered him as a lanky boy. “Ned, please show Mr. Ackley to his room.”

  “Certainly, my lord. This way, sir.” He led Ackley, who still clutched his whisky, back into the great hall.

  “Your son is quite a strapping lad,” Ambrose said, utterly unsure of how to behave with her.

  Small flags of color heightened her cheeks, not from embarrassment—judging by the angle of her chin—but from pride. “He is, thank you. I’ve put Mr. Ackley in the largest chamber in the northern wing. If you’ll come with me, I’ll take you upstairs. Unless you’d prefer to go alone. I presume you recall the location of the viscount’s chamber.”

  Hell. He hadn’t given a thought to where he’d lodge, but of course he’d inhabit the viscount’s chamber. His brother’s room. Ambrose wished he’d drunk his whisky.

  He stood thinking for a minute—of ways to avoid using the viscount’s bedchamber, but it all came down to him being a coward. His muscles tensed, and he again chastised himself. He’d caused his pain, and he’d bloody well endure it.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Oldham, I can find it.”

  She nodded, but something flickered in her eyes.

  “Is there something else?” Ambrose asked. He tried not to think of Mrs. Oldham baking biscuits for him and Nigel when they were boys, of how she’d played king of the castle with them, of how she’d loved them. That was all in the past. “I realize my presence here might be difficult. I want you to speak freely.” He deserved to hear anything she had to say, though nothing could be worse than the diatribe she’d heaped on him before he’d run to London.

  “Why have you come back? After all this time?”

  He wished he could say his conscience had finally driven him, but that wasn’t the truth. “Our houseguest, Mr. Ackley, is a prizefighter and I’m training him. He’s fighting in Truro week after next.”

  She nodded slightly and then tipped her head to the side, as if judging him in a new light. “I see, and how is it you came to train prizefighters?”

  “I was a prizefighter myself.”

  Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “Goodness me, you weren’t!” She studied his face, perhaps noting that his nose was no longer as straight as it once was. “Why would you do that?”

  Her care and concern made him uncomfortable. He didn’t deserve them. He preferred her loathing and disappointment. “Because it suited me. If that’s all…” He didn’t wait for her to respond, but walked by her into the great hall.

  He finally let out his breath as he climbed the stairs, but didn’t dare look down to see if she was watching him.

  He was a nasty brute. Hadn’t he come—at least partly—to seek forgiveness? How could he do that if he behaved badly?

  At the top of the stairs he turned right toward the western wing. The viscount’s chamber was at the end of the hall with glorious views of the bay. With halting steps, he made his way to the chamber and opened the door. A small sitting room greeted him. Decorated in blues and greens, it was the same as when their father had inhabited the space.

  The bedchamber would be different, however. He moved through the sitting room and paused in the doorway. He’d expected to see Nigel’s shorter bed, but of course Ambrose’s own furniture had been moved here at some point during the last five years. It wasn’t as if Nigel would be sleeping here again.

  Ambrose turned toward the opp
osite wall, in the center of which was a massive fireplace. He froze. Hanging over the mantel was a portrait of two boys. Nigel sat in a chair in front of a tree while Ambrose perched on a low branch above him. He remembered his aunt painting that portrait. He’d been what—eight years old? And full of energy. He hadn’t wanted to sit still for a painting. He’d wanted to run, ride, play. Nigel, however, had been a bit sick that day—as he was so often—thus sitting complacently in a chair had been no trouble at all.

  Though Nigel was scarcely twelve in the portrait, he didn’t look much different than the day he’d died at twenty-seven. But then Ambrose had always seen him as smaller, weaker, less of a man. Ambrose closed his eyes and welcomed the hatred he felt for himself.

  Eventually, he turned and left the sitting room. However, instead of exiting into the corridor, he took the wrong door and entered the viscountess’s chamber, which connected to the sitting room.

  He never came into this room. Scarcely remembered it existed, in fact. No one had inhabited it in, what, nearly twenty-five years? The furniture was covered, but the room was clean. Mrs. Oldham hadn’t let it deteriorate into forgotten filth.

  Suddenly he pictured Philippa sitting at the dressing table in the corner, standing at the windows, reclining on the bed. He couldn’t think of her without picturing her naked breasts, her kiss-swollen mouth, her dazzlingly lustrous eyes. Eyes that looked at him with unchecked desire.

  His cock rose. What was she doing now? After leaving Benfield, he’d immersed himself in training Ackley and preparing for their trip to Cornwall. Saxton had visited him once to verbally eviscerate him. Philippa hadn’t been seen since she’d left the house party. She’d closed herself up at Herrick House and saw no one—not that anyone was clamoring to see her. Lady Saxton had tried, but the rest of London had abandoned her as if she’d contracted syphilis.

  Ruination was like that. Ambrose ought to know.

  He closed his eyes, hating her suffering. He’d worked so hard to keep her safe from ridicule. But in the end his lust had won out—again—and created another catastrophe. If he’d ever needed further reason to continue ignoring his prick, he had it now.