LadyClarissasSeduction

by Scott, Scarlett

  Oh dear. He must not.

  “Mr. Foster.” She attempted to gather her addled wits. “I fear this is most inappropriate.”

  “Pierce,” he growled low in his throat as he followed her across the drawing room until her back pressed against the wall. He kissed her with each step and she clung to him, eager for more, helpless to resist. Her tongue dueled with his. He raised her hem. Cool air swirled over her ankles, her knees, her upper thighs.

  His hand slid over the sensitive skin at the curve of her knee. Dear God, this man was undoing her. She’d meant to defy him, beat him in a battle of wits, and instead she was willingly becoming his victim. Falling from grace and the plummet was divine. What was happening to her? Her body warmed as if it had been cast into flames. She’d never known such maddening heights of pleasure existed. Never dreamt she could feel so alive.

  He caught her lower lip between his teeth and tugged. She nipped back at him, thinking if she could consume him, in that moment, she surely would have. She tore at his waistcoat, pulling the buttons from their moorings. She wanted his skin. She wanted to see his chest. She wanted…

  A roguish smile kicked up the corner of his lips. He seemed as breathless as she. “This is most unexpected, princess.”

  “Clarisha?”

  Pierce stiffened. “Damn it to hell.”

  Her father’s disembodied voice echoed through the empty halls and reached her ears. The ramifications of her behavior came down hard upon her shoulders. What had she done? What was she about, allowing this commoner, this man who had ruined her father to touch her so intimately?

  She pushed him from her and tugged her bodice frantically back into place. “It’s my father,” she said, sotto voce. “Oh dear heavens. You must go at once!”

  Pierce Foster eyed her sullenly. His jaw tightened with what she supposed to be anger. “What’s the matter? Ashamed you’ve debased yourself with me, princess?”

  Clarissa smoothed her rumpled skirts and glared back at him. “You are a practiced seducer of innocents, I’ve no doubt. Pray go and leave me to my fate.”

  His lip curled. “What’s next? From the look of things, you haven’t much left to sell other than a threadbare settee and a rather hideous chair. How do you propose to repay the debts owed by your father?”

  Before she could muster a suitable response, her father barged into the drawing room, looking positively bilious. His thinning white hair stood up in a most unbecoming fashion and what had perhaps been his supper the previous evening stained his cravat.

  “What are you shtill doing here, Foster?” he demanded, stumbling against the chair Pierce had so recently disparaged.

  “Seeing you keep yourself out of trouble, Darlington,” Pierce bit out, adjusting his waistcoat and facing her father. “I’ve come to tell you that you’ve a reprieve.”

  “A reprieve?” Clarissa’s stunned voice could be heard echoing her father’s.

  “Indeed. Take yourself to the country for a month and get your affairs in order. You’re no use to anyone in this state.”

  Her father hiccupped. “Haven’t got a coach, have we, Clarisha? Think I gave it over to Eddlesham, or was it Nidderdale?”

  “You may hire a hack, then,” Pierce informed him coldly, removing a handful of notes from his waistcoat and offering them up. “This should be sufficient.”

  “Right.” Papa accepted the money without hesitation. “Come on with you, Clarisha. Foster is ready to take his leave.”

  “No.” Pierce spoke quietly but with enough force to give Papa pause. “Your daughter will not be accompanying you.”

  Clarissa turned to him, startled. “Where shall I go, Mr. Foster?”

  His dark blue gaze settled on hers, simmering with unspoken promise. “You are to come with me, Lady Clarissa. I am afraid in this game of ours, you are to be forfeit or I shall call in your father’s debt immediately.”

  Angels in heaven. She was horrified. Her heart, already beating staccato inside her breast, heaved and threatened to send her spilling to the faded Aubusson. Suddenly, the descent of her proper life as the Lady Clarissa Darlington was complete. She had no choice. The man would take her prisoner. Yet there was something inside her, some rogue voice, telling her she would not mind being taken by him. Not at all.

  Chapter Two

  Papa didn’t offer much protestation at Pierce Foster’s proposal that his daughter should become forfeit to such a notorious and unsuitable man, particularly after said man stuffed a few more ten pound notes into Papa’s open hand. And so it was that Lady Clarissa Darlington, the one-time fiancée of the Earl of Greenwich—until her father’s reduced circumstances became known and Greenwich begged her to release him from his promise—found herself surreptitiously slipped into the back entrance of the gaming hell where her father had lost thirty thousand pounds the evening before.

  The Painted Lady, far from being the obvious den of iniquity she’d expected, appeared clean, spacious, and elegantly appointed. Apart from the scent of tobacco tingeing the air, one would never know it for a gaming establishment. Indeed, even the elaborately carved back stairway outshone any she’d ever before seen. Pierce Foster left her in the care of a stately butler named Henderson upon their arrival with a simple explanation. She was to be their special guest for the foreseeable future and should be given the east bedchamber.

  She followed Henderson in awe, taking in every nuance of the place, from its impressive murals on the ceiling to scantily clad portraits of women and shocking nude statues. A gasp left her throat as she caught sight of a particular bronze depicting a man and a woman entwined. It made her quite flushed.

  She thought again of the unexpected interlude she’d shared with Pierce Foster in Grosvenor Square and the wetness she’d experienced made a slow return. It was frightening and yet intoxicating how a stranger could make her feel after just one passionate embrace. But she knew already without experience she was his. Good or bad, she would belong to Pierce Foster.

  * * * * *

  Damn, double damn, and thrice damn it whilst he was about the business of cursing himself. Pierce Foster tossed back a glass of his best whiskey, the Scots label ordinarily reserved for the all-important task of parting the male members of the Upper Ten Thousand with their blunt. He’d known about Lady Clarissa, of course. Lovely daughter to the Viscount. Her beauty was well known, her fall from grace thanks to her perpetually soused father an unfortunate and oft-repeated tale in the gaming hells of London. Drunk men chatter and gossip worse than women, he’d discovered.

  He’d thought little of her, truth told. Never had he for even the pause of one breath supposed she would have the ethereal beauty of a goddess. Never had he supposed he’d be tempted to steal a kiss from a luscious mouth, to cup a ripe bottom or a lush breast, or to—ye Gods—take her home with him.

  Whiskey singed a trail down Pierce’s throat. She was too good to be sullied by him, and yet he couldn’t help himself. He would have her. He needed, in his very depths, to consume her. She belonged to him. And she was waiting in his private apartment. He couldn’t wait to slide into her tight, wet, aristocratic pussy.

  * * * * *

  Water lapped gently at Clarissa’s bare skin. A fire crackled in the grate. For the first time in recent memory, she was indulging in lazing about in her bath. At home, there had never been enough servants to carry proper water. But unlike her impoverished father, Pierce Foster spared no expense in the pursuit of luxury. Decadence was the proper word for it. He even had a well-appointed bathroom complete with a water-closet.

  An unpacking maid had seen to her meager possessions and after her bath was readied, she had nothing more to do than allow herself the pleasure of bathing in the rose-scented water. Naturally, it did not escape Clarissa’s notice the east bedroom and indeed the bathroom in which she now bathed appeared to belong to Pierce Foster himself. The adjoining chamber smelled of him, a maddening hint of sandalwood and smoke, and the furniture and bed hangings were heavy and dark.<
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  Her pulse quickened, a flutter beginning low in her belly to think of it. She took up the cake of rose soap and began lathering on her arms. So intent was she in her task she failed to hear the door open and close.

  “I see you’ve made yourself at home, princess.”

  A combination of alarm and welcome shot through her at the familiar, deep voice. She turned in the tub, sloshing water upon the floor. Her arms, still sudsy, went up to shield her breasts from his searching gaze. “Mr. Foster!”

  He sketched an ironic bow. “At your service, Lady Clarissa.”

  “It is most improper for you to be present whilst I am unclothed.” The proprieties remained ingrained within her, even if she was about to make complete her fall from polite society.

  His eyes were, she noted, a most attractive and unusual shade of cerulean. They swept down over her bare shoulders to where her crossed arms attempted to hide her generous breasts. Her nipples throbbed, aching to be sucked by his wicked mouth.

  “I’m afraid impropriety is the least of your concerns this evening.”

  The words sent a frisson through her. “Precisely what are your intentions, sir?”

  A smoldering grin curved his mouth. “The same they’ve been since the moment I laid eyes on you. Dishonorable. Dreadfully,” he paused to lean down and take up the soap she’d abandoned, “despicably and deliciously dishonorable.”

  She watched, transfixed, as he dipped a strong hand into her bath water and rubbed the cake of soap between his hands. The gesture itself was an innocent one, but the intent marking his handsome face was anything but. “I must beg you to be a gentleman.” To her own ears, her words were breathless with anticipation. There was no denying it.

  Pierce Foster shook his head, his countenance becoming almost rueful. “A gentleman I am not, princess. Do not fool yourself.” He paused. “Turn round. I shall wash your hair.”

  Dare she allow it? She mustn’t. “I do not require your assistance.”

  “I never claimed you did. Turn ‘round.”

  This time, his words were a command. She obeyed, turning in the tub once more to present him her back. The pins had already been removed from her long tresses, but she had piled it artlessly atop her head to keep it out of her way. As he put his hands into the mass, curls fell around her shoulders, slipping into the water. His touch was surprisingly gentle.

  “Lean your head back,” he ordered.

  She scooted forward in the tub and tipped her head toward him, aware of his palm cupping the nape of her neck. Bit by bit, she sank low into the water until only her face remained dry. Above her in the mellow lighting of the room, his face hovered, drawing inexorably nearer until his breath washed over her lips. He kissed her, the sensation newly erotic to Clarissa. Although their mouths were upside down, they fit perfectly together. His tongue traced her lower lip, delicately seeking, before plunging into her mouth.

  Clarissa quite forgot the need to hide herself from him and reached back with both arms, her wet hands going into the silky thickness of his hair. He shocked her by cupping an aching breast in his free palm. The suds of the rose soap worked into her hair, onto her skin, rising up from the warm water to envelop her in a sensual cloud of sweet fragrance and moist heat.

  Unthinking in all but her need to be closer to him, she whirled around in the bath, rising up from the water like Venus to press herself against the fine fabric of his shirt. Their kiss continued, deepening. He nipped at her lip with his teeth, dragged his mouth over her jaw, dropped hungry kisses down her neck. She nuzzled his hair, kissed the shell of his ear.

  “Damn,” he whispered, his breath coming as hard and fast as hers. He wrapped an arm around her waist and leaned his forehead into hers. “I don’t think I have the patience for washing your hair, princess. I want you in my bed.”

  The words were frank, without artifice. No man had ever been so blunt. The statement shocked her, aroused her. She was curious about him, about the act of love. Did she dare to entrust herself to the care of a man she knew to be the worst sort of rake?

  “Am I to be your forfeit in every sense, Mr. Foster?” She swept her lashes down over her eyes, afraid to look at him.

  “Pierce,” he corrected, his hands, large and warm, stroking her back. He kissed her cheek. “And we will only do what you wish, princess.”

  Clarissa was very much aware of her naked body, of his touch marking her. Claiming her. “I…” She could not speak.

  “Do you want to go to my bed?” he asked, rubbing his lips lingeringly over hers.

  He was a practiced lover, she told herself. She should not give in to the madness. She should regain her tattered resolve, push him away. But the most primitive part of her knew this was inevitable. She had been adrift in her old life, alone, searching for something. Searching, it seemed, for him.

  Clarissa kissed the corner of his mouth, her entire body wound as tightly as a watch spring. At any moment, she felt as if she may explode or come out of her skin. “Yes.”

  A low growl rose from his throat. Setting both his hands on her waist, he lifted her completely from the water. Cradling her dripping body against his chest, he carried her from the bathroom and into his chamber. She shivered.

  “Are you cold, darling?” Concern tinged his voice. “I’ll stoke up the fire.”

  “No.” She didn’t know how to give voice to the sensations coursing through her. But it was most assuredly not chill making her shiver or her body ache so. Rather, it was anticipation. Desire.

  Her body hummed with eagerness to know the wicked pleasures the equally wicked Pierce Foster could work upon her. He was a notoriously bad man. A ruiner of innocents. A gambler. A purveyor of vice. She knew she should care, exercise restraint. But she could not help herself. She scarce recognized the woman she had become in his arms.

  “Have you any experience with men, princess?” he asked softly, his eyes glowing with a keen understanding.

  Had she been bedded before, he meant. “No.”

  Of course she had not. The furtive kisses she’d known in the past were nothing compared to this all-consuming passion blazing between them.

  “I’ll try my best to be gentle.”

  He laid her upon his bed with great care, then stood back, his fingers working on the buttons of his shirt. His blue eyes devoured her. She looked at her own nakedness with him, aroused at the sight of herself on his big bed. A glossy sheen of water still clung to her skin, beading on her sensitive nipples, bellybutton and the warm wet folds of her pussy.

  “You are beautiful, princess.” When he spoke the words, she believed them.

  He was naked from the waist up when he joined her on the bed, covering her soft body with his hard one. She ran her hands over his muscled chest, enjoying the feel of the strength leashed within him, the prickle of his light chest hairs against her fingers. Another growl escaped him at the play of her touch over his body.

  “Have I done something wrong?” Her voice was hesitant. She knew very little of such matters.

  “No.” His breath hissed through his teeth. “I like your hands on me, princess.”

  He kissed her again, and this time it was a deep and consuming kiss. A kiss that claimed and possessed. His fingers teased the tips of her breasts into aching peaks, knowing with unerring ease where to touch, how much pressure. Her body was made for sin, it seemed.

  “And I enjoy your hands on me, sir.”

  “Pierce.” His golden head lowered to her breasts, catching a nipple between his teeth. Holding her gaze, he tugged, biting with just enough pressure to shock and entice her without hurting her.

  She arched into him. “Pierce.”

  His fingers went to the fall of his breeches, fumbling. Delivering a kiss to his shoulder, she rose, helping him. Together, they removed the black breeches, tossing them to the floor. His long, thick cock jutted magnificently between them. A gasp of breath stole from her throat. Never before had she seen a nude man, and the sight of Pierce Foster was
enough to induce a swoon.

  “Touch me,” he rasped, voice strained.

  Their eyes met, his dark blue and stormy with passion. Intense. He caught her hand in his, brought it over his chest, down the firm ridges of his abdomen to the scorching length of him. They gasped in unison as her fingers closed around his hard cock. His head fell back, his sullen mouth parted and slack. Clarissa’s pulse pounded, her blood slowing and heating, her body aching like an instrument begging to be worshipped.

  He was more beautiful than a man had a right to be. Watching his face, the stark angles, the lazy slits of his eyes on her, she kissed and licked a path to his neck as she worked her fingers over his shaft. His skin tasted salty and musky, utterly tempting. Her free palm flattened over his heart, feeling its racing beat. She kissed his strong jaw, his chin, his mouth. Her pussy throbbed to feel that delicious cock inside her.

  Pierce pulled her hand from him, pinning her down to the bed, ravaging her mouth with kisses. And then he found the place within her where the ache budded and bloomed. His fingers skimmed over her pussy with perfect pressure, finding the knot of her desire and toying with it until she was feverish beneath him.

  “Now I want to taste your sweet little pussy.”

  Oh dear. Taste? What could he mean?

  Sensing her confusion, he explained. “I want to put my tongue inside you. Would you like that?”

  It sounded naughty. As she pondered his question, he lowered his beautiful face between her legs, watching her all the while. He spread her thighs with his large, capable hands.

  “Your pussy is absolute perfection, princess,” he whispered. “Pink, wet and waiting for me. I have to have you.”

  Without waiting for her response, he dipped his tongue into her folds, tasting and toying. His stubble grazed her in the most maddening way. She arched into his mouth, a sigh slipping from her. He rubbed his face in her pussy, looking up to meet her eyes as his long tongue slid inside her. In, out, in, out. She moaned, reveling in the warm slippery heat, the tantalizing pressure.