Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1)

by Adrienne deWolfe

"How beautiful you are," he murmured, his hands gliding lower. Stays and garters parted like smoke before his touch; she shivered, feeling the silk of her stockings cascade to her ankles. In a heartbeat, maybe two, she'd be naked beneath him. It was a heady realization, but a sobering one, too. Would the erotic fusion of flesh to flesh steal her hard-won nerve?

  He was shedding his own clothes now: black worsted, linen, satin, and leather. The earthy manscents of him—sandalwood and pine—grew sharper, more seductive, as his skin was bared to her senses. He was rugged and vital, magnetic and sensual, and more heart-trippingly masculine than anything she had ever dared to admire.

  She let her maidenly eyes feast on his self-assured display: tight buttocks, crisp tawny hair, and the inevitable thrust of his phallus. A breathless sense of awe washed over her. She waited for the dreaded alchemy that would turn her veneration into fear. Instead, a languorous longing lapped through her. This was Rafe. The man she loved.

  Shyly, she stretched her arms for him. He seemed to check himself then, drawing a ragged breath. A tender smile curved his mouth, and he caught her fingers, pressing them to his lips.

  "I want this night to be special for you, Silver," he whispered, his eyes aglow with a secret promise as he pulled the ribbon from her hair. It tumbled around her in a lavender-scented mess, but he smoothed it, weaving his fingers through the curls. "I want to make your love dreams come true. Will you trust me, my darling?"

  She nodded, too tongue-tied to speak. She recognized a sacredness in his manner, a reverence for the act in which she had once nearly been defiled. Rafe's very smile made her feel exalted and adored, and when he lowered himself beside her, gathering her to his chest, she wanted to cry for the sheer gentleness of his embrace.

  Lips like velvet roses nuzzled hers; hands like well-worn leather massaged her buttocks and thighs. His tongue, teasing her inner ear, distracted her from her first jolt of virginal unease, but when his finger slipped inside her, she clawed his shoulders, stunned by the boldness of his exploration.

  "Trust me," he crooned again, rocking her against the satiny hair of his chest. She loosed a throttled moan, and his tongue circled her navel. He feasted lower, nuzzling her groin, nipping her knees. She found herself arching helplessly, her legs jerking open as if pulled by strings, while he, the puppet master, wooed her bashful muscles to obey.

  Soon, the steam of his breath tantalized her most private places. A flash of insight followed, more shocking than anything she had dared to imagine, and just as she was assuring herself she was mistaken about his intention, his mouth settled and sucked.

  She whimpered, nearly crawling out of her skin.

  "Rafe, please—"

  "Patience, love," he urged, his voice broken and breathless. "You're not ready."

  Not ready? she wondered dizzily. How could that be? His tongue now mimicked the maddening thrust of his finger. She trembled, beginning to writhe. "Rafe," she moaned again, straining to touch him, but he twined his fingers through hers, effectively making them prisoners. Dimly, she recalled the devil in him, the wicked tormentor who could set her blood on fire with a single, bawdy grin. She wanted to make him feel the same way. She wanted to make him ache for her the way she ached for him. Twisting, she half sobbed for relief. He gentled his petting and kissed her.

  "You're still too tight," he said hoarsely, his explanation distorted by the pounding in her head. "Let me pleasure you, sweetheart. Just a little longer..." He dipped his tongue back inside her steaming flesh, and his growl, low and guttural with satisfaction, vibrated through her on an erotic rumble of sound. "God, you taste like molten honey..."

  It was almost more than she could bear, this insidious heat he was slowly, masterfully fanning into a bonfire. She thought she would reach the point of meltdown before she ever ignited. She thought she would lose her mind before she lost her maidenhead. Deprived of her last shred of coherent thought, she wondered if he might not be up to some nefarious purpose to tease her so unmercifully.

  And then the bonfire burst fully into flame. She cried out, and he reared up, his mouth covering hers.

  Before her dazzled senses could sort one sensation from the other, he'd thrust hard and clean, driving to the center of her being. She bucked uncontrollably, and he sheathed himself again, deepening the indescribable waves of pleasure that shuddered through her body.

  "That's it," he groaned, his breath sawing as hard as hers in the shimmering heat. "I want all of you, Silver. All of you. Everything you are is mine now, love. Always..."

  She couldn't respond—not in words. So she rose to meet him, again and again, pulling him deeper, clasping his hips closer. He was dynamite; she was the fuse, and when their worlds collided, ecstasy exploded, wracking body, mind, and soul with a glittering avalanche of sensation.

  Rafe was still panting when he rolled to the cushions. Emotions too volatile to name ripped through him; he buried his face in her hair. Wrapping possessive arms around her, he clutched her to his crashing heart. For the first time in his life, he felt release, true release, as if the demons had at last surrendered their chains on him. And it was all because of Silver.

  "Rafe?"

  She tried to stir, but he hushed her with his caresses, wanting nothing more than to hold her and love her and watch the sun rise and set in her eyes.

  "W-we have to tell Papa about us. About who you are before—"

  "I know, sweet. Not tonight, though."

  "But Benson! And Aaron—"

  "You let me deal with them, all right?"

  She swallowed. Reluctantly, her head fell back against his shoulder. "I couldn't bear it if you were arrested."

  He sighed. He had to admit, he wasn't fond of the idea either. But none of his offenses had been hanging ones—yet, he corrected himself darkly, envisioning Townsend's throat between his hands. Until this moment, he'd never had enough to live for to worry about the consequences of his lawless life.

  Who would have thought it would come to this? Raphael Jones falling in love—and with the woman he'd set out to fleece, yet? He'd suspected for days he'd been plugged by Cupid, but only now did he understand why. His devotion to Silver had nothing to do with face, shape, or wealth. His heart had chosen her because she'd let him strip off his mask. She'd given him back his humanity. She'd taught him wrongs could be forgiven, even repaired.

  But most importantly, she'd taught him he could be loved—even with imperfections. For a love as precious as Silver's, he would lay down his life.

  She sighed, and he wrapped her shawl around her, watching her lashes fan lower until she drifted off to sleep. He couldn't remember a time when he'd ever faced so much happiness—and so much fear. Prayers didn't come easily to him, but as the moon began to sink, stealing behind the charcoal ridge of mountains, he finally broke his lifelong vow and talked to God.

  I know I'm a sorry bastard, Lord. I know I don't deserve her. But please, don't let Townsend take her away. I'll do whatever you want, whatever it takes. I'll even serve my time, if I have to. Just please keep her safe 'til I come home. Thank you. Amen.

  Chapter 14

  Silver dozed restlessly in Rafe's arms as dim, vaguely threatening images flitted through her dreams. She wished she could sate her mind as well as he'd slaked her body, but every bubble of bliss floating through her limbs was chased by a whitecap of worry.

  Before another day dragged her deeper into self-loathing and fear, she wanted to confess her crimes to Papa; she wanted to fire Benson; and she wanted to find some way to keep Rafe out of jail. Most of all, she wanted to rid her life of Aaron Townsend and start the future she'd always dreamed of—with Rafe.

  But Rafe didn't seem to share her sense of urgency, at least not when it came to confessing their misdeeds to Papa. In fact, he'd seemed rather amused by her panic to dress and sneak inside the house before Benson awoke and discovered them missing.

  "Darling," he'd purred, after they'd dashed hand-in-hand up the back stairwell and slumped breathlessly ag
ainst her bedroom door, "we have the rest of our lives to beg Max's forgiveness and make amends. Let's just claim this morning for ourselves... and lovemaking."

  She'd wanted to protest, but he'd already snatched away the shawl she'd been clutching like a shield to her rumpled gown. Before she could hide her bawdy blush, he'd bowled her back onto the bed. She'd found herself distracted from her worries, laughing and scolding between pants, feeling duty-bound to at least try to instill some decorum in her scoundrel. She failed miserably in the attempt, mostly because she delighted in his hungry, prowling caress.

  By the time it seriously occurred to her that they should stop, that Jimmy, Papa, or, God forbid, Benson might overhear their amorous romping, Rafe had already petted her into a paroxysm of desire. She pitched helplessly beneath his mouth and hands, mortified to hear the booming creaks of the mattress, and yet too frenzied to do more than gulp a warning.

  He chuckled at her ladylike restraint, plunging deeper and snaking faster, relentless in his mission to drive her past the point of all caring. She lost her mind with her self-control, crying out his name again and again, until a throaty, desperate growl signaled the climax of his own restraint, and he drove home hard and fast, obliging her half-sobbed pleas to fill her with his passion.

  She woke from their early morning loving three hours later, a sheet draping her nakedness and the aroma of sandalwood wafting faintly from the hollow in the pillow by her head. She groaned, sitting up, and scrubbed her face with her hands. Her tawny-haired debaucher was nowhere to be seen.

  She sighed dreamily, touching her tongue to her swollen bottom lip. Memories from the last twelve hours made her heat and ice by turn: Rafe. The séance. Aaron. She swallowed.

  Swinging her feet to the floor, she straightened, grimacing at the dull, feminine ache her first steps caused her. Still, she couldn't delay the inevitable. She had to face Papa... before Aaron bore out Cellie's predictions.

  At nearly half past ten, Silver finally completed her toilette and eased down the steps to find Papa. She was in luck. Despite the lateness of the hour, he hadn't left the house yet for one of his Roaring Fork Club meetings or, more likely, one of his treasure hunts. She could hear his cheerful whistles and smell the pungent smoke of his cigar as she dragged her feet ever closer to his study.

  She peeked around the door. A bulging satchel spilled maps across his desk; in his hand was a compass, on his head sat his miner's helmet, which now sported some weird, geometric talisman for warding off ghosts. She drew a bolstering breath and rapped.

  "Papa?"

  He glanced up, his reading spectacles sliding to the bulb of his nose. "Daughter!" He beamed. "So there you are. And just in time, too. Cellie and me've got that wily old Injun shaman cornered."

  "Y-you do?"

  "Yep. Right here at the bottom of the mine," he said, pointing to a spot on one of his maps. "Time to go in and make our demands. And not a moment too soon. Tavy's stunt last night scared the bejabbers out of Kilkarney and Penhalion. They're convinced they really did see Nahele. Now they've got the shovel stiffs in an uproar, and nobody reported to work today."

  "Nobody?" she repeated halfheartedly.

  "'Fraid so. Even Brady has a touch of 'ghost flu,' so I hear." Papa snickered. "Or maybe it's his fear of crab-puff-chasing otters that's kept him abed."

  She smiled weakly.

  "Uh, Papa, I need to talk to you about something. It's... important."

  "Important, huh?" He squinted at his compass, jotted a notation on his map, then peered up at her expectantly. "Sounds serious."

  She fidgeted, not at all certain how to continue. "Yes. Yes, it is. And... it's going to hurt, Papa."

  "Me or you?"

  "You."

  "Hmm." He slid her a sideways glance. "Well, I never would have guessed that, you being so tongue-tied."

  She blushed, worrying her bottom lip. "Papa, I did something terrible to you."

  "Did you, now?"

  She nodded.

  "Well, doing something terrible doesn't make you a terrible person, daughter."

  She blinked, momentarily taken aback. To be told she wasn't terrible was the last thing she'd expected to hear.

  "But you don't know what I did," she protested. "I hired Chumley. Only he isn't really Chumley. He's an imposter, a Shakespearean actor named Raphael Jones."

  Papa started. "An actor?"

  She nodded queasily.

  "Well, doesn't that beat all?" He slowly grinned. "An actor. Imagine that. And a damned fine one, too. Shoot. I shoulda known. I reckon your average duke is too snooty for Alice in Wonderland—not to mention pumpkin pickers and orphaned otters. Say!" Papa added eagerly, "do you suppose Chum... er, I mean, this Jones fella might want to work in Cellie's opera?"

  "Uh, Papa?" she interrupted, feeling unaccountably deflated by his good humor. "Don't you want to know what I hired Rafe to do?"

  He gave her another sidelong look. "Is that the terrible part you warned me about?"

  She nodded, fighting back tears.

  "Well... all right, then. What'd you hire Rafe to do?"

  Her throat worked around the painful lump lodged there. "I hired him to... to come between you and Cellie. To make her show her true colors and, um, prove she didn't love you."

  Was that the light striking off his spectacles, or were his eyes actually twinkling?

  "Now why would you go and do that, daughter?" he asked more gravely.

  "Because I thought Cellie was an arsonist. I thought she would hurt you once you married her and... and named her in your will."

  He folded his arms across his chest. "So what made you change your mind?"

  She wanted to crawl under the rug. "I hired a detective to... uh, investigate the rumors about her. And he told me she wasn't responsible for the fire that burned down that church in Kentucky."

  Papa nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Well, I reckon you just had to convince yourself, daughter. You wouldn't listen to me."

  A slow heat crawled up her face. "You're not mad?" she whispered hoarsely.

  His dimples peeked. "Do you want me to be?"

  She half-sobbed, pressing a shaking hand to her mouth. The relief she felt at being so easily pardoned made her head spin. Giddy, free, and two tons lighter, she bubbled with laughter. The sound came out in hiccupping peals. She couldn't help herself. All these weeks of guilt, and Papa wasn't even angry!

  "Thank you." She clasped her hands, tears trickling past her idiotic grin. "I love you, Papa. And... and there's something else you should know. I love Rafe, too."

  Papa lit up like a Christmas fir. "Love him? But that's fabulous, daughter!" he cried, hurrying forward to wrap her in a bear hug. "Bully for you. And bully for him, too! Raphael Jones, huh? Why, I'll be damned. Did the rascal propose yet?"

  She nodded, giggling and blushing, and so overwhelmingly happy that even her fear of Aaron, for the moment, couldn't pierce the bubble of her elation. "Oh, Papa, I hope you don't mind. In light of what you didn't know, he thought it best that he ask me directly."

  "Mind? Shoot, daughter, I'm tickled by the news! Plum tickled. We can have a double wedding! Looks like I'll finally have my son-in-law, and you'll finally have... well, babies!" He chuckled as she grew even hotter. "Cellie'll be thrilled. She's never had children of her own, you know. Why, I was just telling her the other day what a handsome devil Chum... er, I mean, Rafe turned out to be, once she got him to shave off all his whiskers. I shoulda thought of it myself, since I put him up to it in the first place, but it looks like he didn't need help from me, after all. The rascal came through."

  Silver blinked at him, her lightheartedness snuffed out by a slowly evolving suspicion. "What do you mean, 'put him up to it'?"

  He started, flushing guiltily. "Did I say that? Er... no. What I meant was—"

  "Papa"—-dread tightened its coils around Silver's stomach—"what did you ask Rafe to do?"

  He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Now, daughter,
what difference does it make? You love him, don't you? And he loves you too. Let's just go back to planning our weddings—"

  "Did you ask Rafe to... to marry me?"

  His chin jutted like that of a child who'd just been caught with a cookie. "I thought you were fond of him," he said defensively. "And I thought he was a duke. Besides, it's a father's prerogative to arrange his daughter's marriage. And I am your father, you know."

  "You arranged my marriage?" she choked in a thin, quavering voice. "Like the rich families do back in Europe?"

  "Oh, Silver, do we really have to talk about—"

  "Yes! Yes, I have to know. What was my dowry? Did you make him a partner? Did you deed him a mine?"

  When his eyes shifted, avoiding hers completely, she heard her heart splinter, a tinkling cacophony of falling pieces.

  "I wanted you to be happy, honey," he explained, his fingers reaching beseechingly for her sleeve. "The way me and Cellie are. The way you used to be back in Philly, before that Townsend fella stopped courting you..."

  Silver couldn't bear to hear more. Blindly, she turned for the door, her throat burning with unshed tears as she raced from the humiliation. Now she understood why Rafe hadn't been in any hurry for her to speak with Papa. Now she understood what he'd meant by his tender—or had it been triumphant?—declaration: "Everything you are is mine now."

  Hadn't she thought he'd been up to some nefarious purpose? The truth ripped up her insides like a thousand savage claws. She'd been naive—again. She'd fallen prey to the same vicious prank that she, God forgive her, had plotted against Celestia. She wanted to scream herself raw from the shame.

  But more than that, she wanted to bleed out the pain. Rafe didn't love her. He hadn't proposed marriage out of any kind of fond feeling for her. No, he'd seen nothing but dollar signs and stock dividends each time he'd kissed her. He was no better than Aaron!

  She choked, clutching her corset as the whalebone chafed her breasts. Somehow, unerringly, her feet had carried her to Rafe's door. She could hear him humming an off-key melody above the chinking of metal against porcelain. He was shaving, she realized dimly. It was the last sane thought she entertained.