The Perks of Loving a Scoundrel

by Jennifer McQuiston

  His smile faltered. “Let us be clear here, Mary, I do not intend to demand anything that passes between us. In fact, I plan to have you so thoroughly kissed and pleasured you will beg me to indulge you.” He leaned forward, and she held her breath, not at all sure what he was about in this moment. After all, she had just more or less accused him of having the pox.

  Slowly, purposefully, he pressed a kiss against her cheek, a featherlight promise of what might come. She could feel his breath, fanning out against her skin, rippling through her like a wave on water. “Pleasure is meant to be shared,” he said, his voice low and husky, “not commanded.” He pulled back. Met her eye. “I would never want anything but an eager partner in my bed.”

  Heat flooded her cheeks. Good heavens, even her ears felt warm. She was knocked off-kilter by the dark promise in those words, and even more by the wicked hope they inspired. None of the heroes in her precious books had ever said anything like that.

  She looked down at her hands, knotted in her skirts. She recalled how he had touched her last night, so thoroughly. She had no doubts that he could kiss her until she forgot about the pox and the pretend corpse and the scores of women who had come before her.

  Drat it all, he could probably make her forget her own name.

  “Unfortunately, pleasure isn’t the only thing that can be shared,” she said, shaking her head slowly. Oh, how she wished they could just go on with beautiful kisses, and pretend the other pieces of it didn’t matter. But her imagination had settled over her like a cold, wet blanket, and it wasn’t so easy to pull it off, now that the worst of it had been said.

  “Then let me show you this.” He pushed up to a sitting position and reached for a drawer in the bedside table.

  Mary tried not to notice the way the muscles of his back rippled beneath his silk waistcoat and shirt. Tried, too, to analyze the quiver of her own nerves. Pox-ridden or no, after last night’s misadventure in the coach, she could admit he possessed talents that could unlock an immense sort of pleasure. He wasn’t the sort of husband she would have chosen from the pages of a book, but he was her husband. He could legally demand this of her, whether she hesitated or not.

  Why was she acting like such a ninny about it?

  He pulled something out of the drawer and turned back around holding a silver case. As he opened it, she saw three objects lying in a nest of blue velvet. They were long, nearly transparent, and had delicate pink ribbons threaded through the tops.

  “For you.” He held the case out.

  She reached out a finger, tracing the outline of one. “What are they?”

  “French letters. A brand-new set.”

  When she snatched her hand away as though touching a snake, he laughed out loud, then laid the box on the bedside table, next to the revolver. “I have always used one faithfully, in all of my exploits. When my brother-in-law Dr. Merial realized my . . . er . . . early proclivities, he encouraged me in their use. They protect the user against the risk of the pox, as well as one’s partner from a possible pregnancy.”

  “I . . . see,” she stammered. Though she didn’t really.

  “If you wish,” he said, cocking his head, “we can continue to use one until you are ready to trust me.” His eyes softened, and for the first time in this entire conversation, he looked pensive. “Until you can accept my past, and understand that you, alone are my future. I would not hurt you, Mary. Not purposefully.”

  “Oh.” She felt very foolish now. He was putting this choice in her hands.

  If she asked him to, he would put one of those on his . . . and she would tie it about his . . . and then they would . . . heat suffused her cheeks.

  Well, now she did see, thank you very much.

  And the part he’d said about she alone being his future . . . the thought made her chest tighten in what felt like hope. She wanted to believe this marriage—while necessary and rushed and somewhat contrived—could evolve into a future happiness. But it was hard to imagine that a man of his legend might be satisfied with only one woman—and a wife, at that—in his bed.

  Harder, still, to expect him to keep such a promise, knowing so little as she did about the matters shared between a husband and a wife.

  “Thank you. For telling me the truth about your past.” At least, she hoped it was the truth. There was still so much about this man she felt she did not know. Every layer she peeled back only raised more questions. “And thank you for my wedding gift,” she added weakly.

  Though, it was surely the strangest gift ever given a bride on her wedding day.

  “Oh, that is not your gift.” He chuckled, then reached back into the drawer and withdrew a slim novel, presenting it to her with a flourish. “This is your wedding gift. I had to go to three different bookstores before I found one who would sell it.”

  “You are giving me a book?” Tears welled up in her eyes, and her breath grew tight in her throat. She ran a finger over the gold embossed letters of the title, trying to make it out through the sudden shimmer of tears. “The . . . Lovely . . . Turk?” She’d never heard of it, but it didn’t matter if the author was obscure, or if the writing was terrible.

  It was a book. Its very existence meant West had thought of her, considered what she might enjoy, and then gone out to purchase it.

  Unexpectedly, she felt the press of his thumb against her cheek, wiping away tears. “Not exactly. Look again.”

  She blinked away the moisture. The letters swam into view. “The . . . Lustful Turk?”

  “And perhaps, once you’ve read it, it will prove a gift for both of us.”

  Chapter 17

  He waited to see what she would do.

  What she would say.

  Given her obsession with books, he’d known immediately what he wanted to get her as a wedding gift, but something of the devil had seized him in the choice of it.

  The book had been published nearly three decades before, too salacious for the author to even affix a false name to it. West had only seen one other copy, a much-tattered and snickered-over version that was handed down through the hallways of Harrow like a rite of passage. The bookseller had extracted it from a secret shelf beneath a desk and then handed it over with the hushed authority of someone delivering an opium pipe.

  Of course, it had been purchased before she’d so prudishly questioned him about his sexual exploits. Before he’d realized she might have qualms about their wedding night. Surely now was when she would burst into a spate of tears, to see the reading preferences of the degenerate she had married.

  But once again, she surprised him.

  “Should I read it . . . now?” she asked, brushing the remnants of tears from her eyes.

  West felt a smile begin to spread across his face. He began to unbutton his waistcoat, anticipation making his fingers feel clumsy. “Out loud, I should think.”

  As he shrugged out of his braces, she settled her shoulders against his pillow. “Scenes in the Harem of an Eastern Potentate,” she began, then hesitated, her eyes widening. “Faithfully and vividly depicting in a series of letters from a young and beautiful English lady to her friend in England the full particulars of her ravishment and of her complete abandonment to all the salacious tastes of the Turks.” A vivid flush stained her cheeks, spreading downward toward her décolletage. “This sounds . . . ah . . . interesting.”

  “Quite,” he chuckled, pulling off his shoes and socks.

  “Should I read on?”

  “As you wish.”

  She eyed his progress warily, but nodded. “Dearest Sylvia . . . We arrived here early this morning after a most melancholy journey. Time alone can remove the painful impressions which the appearance of poor Henry created as we parted.” The gaze she leveled at him then was nearly reproachful. “This doesn’t sound nearly as interesting as before.”

  “Oh, poor Henry is not the hero of this tale.” West lowered himself onto the bed, leaving his shirt and trousers in place for the moment, then propped himself up on one
elbow. “It starts slowly,” he admitted, lifting his hand to begin exploring the damnable mystery of the fastenings of her bodice, “but trust me, it gets much better.”

  She turned her attention back to the pages and West took advantage of her distraction to begin to slide free the brass eyes hidden beneath the brown wool, each inch of progress an agonizing triumph. He had a set path in mind: get her undressed while she was distracted, and then kiss her until she forgot her fear.

  But as her voice settled into the story, it became difficult to concentrate on her seduction.

  Because he was the one being seduced.

  God, but she had the loveliest voice. He could nearly imagine that she was the one captured by the fearsome Turk, the way her breathing hitched at key parts, the way her lip quivered in anticipation. The temptation to hurry made his hands curl to fists, but he forced himself to go slowly. He had but one chance to introduce Mary to the pleasures of a wedding bed. He was determined to get something right, for once in his life.

  By the time the narrative began to shift into something more interesting, he had gotten her skirts off and unlaced her corset—which was every bit as plain and utilitarian as he had once feared. As he slid the last of the laces free, his hands hesitated over the dilemma of her chemise.

  How to remove it without interrupting such a sweet, sinful oration?

  “Nature,” she breathed, hardly noticing his snagged progress, so engrossed was she now in the unfolding tale, “had become aroused and assisted his lascivious proceedings, conveying his kisses, brutal as they were, to the inmost recesses of my heart.”

  Abandoning the idea of removing it, West lowered his head, tracing his tongue across her chemise until the fabric grew damp and he could see the dark temptation of her nipple beneath. God, but she had perfect breasts, small and round and shaped for his tongue.

  He blew across them, his thumb caressing the pert tip.

  A small hitch of pleasured surprise escaped her lips—though whether from his touch or from the direction the story had suddenly gone, it was difficult to be sure. “I felt his hand rapidly divide my thighs,” she went on, her voice growing hoarse. “And quickly one of his fingers penetrated that place which, God knows, no male hand had ever before touched.” Her voice trailed away, and he knew she was remembering how he had touched her last night.

  West reached out and lifted the book from her hands. “That’s enough for now, I think. Perhaps we might continue reading later.” Much later. There were parts of this book not for the faint of heart. In fact, later passages contained lots of plundering and tearing asunder of virgins, including one memorable bit with a specially designed couch that fastened a lover’s arms immobile and lifted her bum high in the air, readied to receive . . .

  West drew a deep breath as he placed the book on the bedside table. He could not—would not—think of such things. At least . . . not yet. But who knew how adventurous his new wife might yet prove to be?

  He turned back, his mouth going dry at the sight of her. She was close to naked and propped on his bed—the only woman to ever have graced his coverlet, dressed or otherwise. The small bit of text she’d read out loud had unmoored him. He wanted to hear her voice say his name in that same hoarse quiver, feel the heat of her body close against his cock.

  It occurred to him that he probably ought to kiss her, now that she was no longer using those delectable lips for reading. He stretched out a hand toward her coiled hair and began to pull out pin after pin, until that thick, fragrant warmth spilled down into his hands and draped across her slim shoulders like a wave of temptation.

  And then—then, she looked at him, almost shyly, and lifted her arms.

  He growled his approval and skimmed the lingering bit of cotton over her head, then fell upon her bared breasts, pressing kisses across their rosy surface, drowning in the simple taste of her. He knew a surge of relief to hear the small sob of a sound she made as his mouth closed over her nipple, felt her hands flutter about his ears, not stopping him. In fact, urging him on.

  Lust roared through him to realize she was every bit as aroused as he was.

  Slowly, he cautioned himself.

  But then she placed her hands against his face, and pulled him to her to press her lips against his, no longer waiting quietly. And just like that, his good intentions were ripped free of the promise of control he’d made to himself, and his senses spun in a new direction where slow, steady seductions had no place.

  Mary gasped as his mouth finally met hers, her blood stirred to eager acceptance by the flavor of the erotic pages. A groan escaped him as her tongue tangled with his, and she felt a curl of possession to know that in spite of his very vast experience in the matter, she was the one he wanted in this moment. The contact of his body against her bare skin was searing, the gentle scrape of his clothing too much. Not enough.

  Anything and everything in between.

  She arched against him, wanting something she couldn’t even name, but she knew a moment’s confusion as he pulled away, panting.

  Had he changed his mind?

  But no . . . he was fumbling at his wrists. “Bloody . . . frigging . . . cufflinks . . .”

  She stifled a giggle that her very experienced husband could be stymied by something so simple, then helped tug his shirttails free and up and over his head. Only then did she pause, lifting her hand to press it against the startling mat of blond hair scattered across this chest. She breathed in, a bit overwhelmed by it all, then lowered her hand, exploring.

  It seemed the books she had read only skimmed the surface of it all. Not one of the books she had read had ever described the complex thrill of running one’s hand over a flat, ridged abdomen and feeling the muscles contract against her touch.

  Or the way her own stomach would quiver in the exploration of another’s skin.

  She aimed higher, tracing a faint circular scar she saw on his left shoulder. It was no bigger than a ha’penny, but the ruined surface hinted at some violence in his past. She felt a sudden chill to see it so close to his heart. She slid her palm against the healed whorl of skin. “You’ve been shot at some point. What happened?”

  “A tale for another time.”

  She opened her mouth, intending to ask more, but he pressed his palm against hers and then guided her palm lower, down past the waistband of his trousers. She sucked in a surprised breath as her fingers curved slowly around the wool-covered length of him.

  Oh, good heavens. He’d teased her about the size of his body, and while she had no notion of comparison save a few drawings in an old anatomy text, he certainly felt impressive, swelling to attention beneath her palm. As she contemplated what lurked beneath, he pushed the wool down over his hips, kicking his trousers and small clothes free, and she gasped as he spilled into her hands. She swallowed to realize that this was what would bludgeon its way through her virginity. “I don’t think—” she began, only to be silenced by another searing kiss.

  He loomed over her, pressing her down into the mattress, that concerning part of him pushing rudely against her hip. “Don’t think, Mary,” he murmured against her mouth. “Feel.”

  “But logically—” she started, only to find her objection silenced in the depths of another scalding kiss. His hands swept down her arms, working some kind of sinful magic, making her forget to breathe, much less question how they would fit.

  “Focus on the sensations, not the facts.” He licked his way up her neck, making her gasp and arch against the bedclothes. “It defies whatever bit of logic you want to throw at it.”

  He moved further afield to blaze a trail down the length of her body, his tongue swirling a heady promise. She gasped as he rounded the curve of one hip, and felt the slide of his hands beneath her derriere. And then he was settling between her quivering thighs, his breath warm and dangerous. “West . . .” she gasped, suddenly anticipating what he was about.

  The tenor of his kisses shifted to something unimaginable, and then he was well and tru
ly proving himself a scoundrel, placing his mouth against the seam of her, his tongue swirling hot circles of need. Her hips arched upward from the mattress, aided by the press of his hands, and she could do nothing but turn herself over to the maelstrom he commanded.

  Good heavens, how the man could kiss. And in unexpected places, but in wonderful ways. It wreaked havoc on her very sanity, the way he made her feel, the things he knew to do.

  She’d never imagined lovemaking was so . . . feral.

  There was no other word for it. The books she had read implied a refined exchange, elegant and polite, sometimes coercive. But this was raw and sweaty and altogether too much. The pleasure building in her—in her mind, in her limbs, in her womb—had nothing of a civilized nature to it. “West!” she cried again, sensing that moment of crisis bearing down on her, and not yet ready to give herself over to it, for then surely she would die too soon. But it seemed dying was her due, because she skidded into it, hung on the edge, and then plunged into sensation. She broke apart, ten thousand pieces, each of them gasping his name.

  Still breathing hard, she slumped back against the bedclothes, stunned.

  He had just done something unthinkable to her.

  And yet . . . when her breathing quieted and coherent thought resumed, she had a notion she wasn’t going to be able to stop thinking about it.

  With boneless fingers, she lifted him toward her. Brought him back to her lips for a more proper sort of kiss, not even caring that his mouth had just been on her in other more stunning places. “That was . . . that is . . .” She sighed against his mouth, abandoning the effort to articulate her thoughts, because she wasn’t even sure she understood them. “Inventive.”

  He chuckled, shifting his lips to press a kiss to her temple. “Well, I’ve been called many things, wife, but that is a new one.”