Seduced by a Scoundrel

by Olivia Drake

  “Your will is my pleasure.”

  His hands moved in lazy strokes, tracing the curves of her body. Stepping behind her, he slowly undressed her. He slid the copper silk gown off her shoulders, letting it slither to the floor, leaving her clad in only a lace-trimmed shift and a single petticoat. With a tug on the ties, he sent the petticoat drifting downward. He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear, sending shivers over her skin. “No corset today,” he said in a rough murmur. “Mistress, you make my duties so … enjoyable.”

  Oh, she did like this game! She lifted her arms. “Finish, my slave.”

  He complied, disposing of her last garment. Then he cupped her bare breasts in his hands. With a sigh, she leaned into him, relishing the abrasion of his coarse tunic on her soft skin, the radiant heat of his body, the urgency of his iron-hard arousal. “Kiss me,” she whispered. “Oh, Drake, do kiss me or I’ll go mad.”

  He brought his mouth down on hers with gentle pressure as if he controlled his passion. But she didn’t want discipline; she wanted wild, uninhibited seduction. Winding her arms around his neck, she parted her lips and enticed him with her tongue. He responded with a hoarse groan, tasting her, caressing her, his hands sliding downward from her breasts to her hips, stopping just short of the place she wanted to be touched.

  “To bed, slave,” she said. “Take me to bed now.”

  He obeyed, half carrying her across the chamber and pressing her down onto the sea of red petals. The scent of roses wafted around her and mingled with his exciting essence. Stripping off his tunic, he loomed over her, broad and strong, his muscles bronzed by the candlelight. He was all man, her man.

  Crouching over her on the bed, he took one nipple into his mouth and suckled her, then did the same to the other. Alicia uttered a breathless cry, her fingers sinking into his thick black hair. All the while, he caressed her in a leisurely fashion, teasing her between her legs until she could no longer bear the torment, and she reached for his heavy shaft, guiding him to her.

  Then he joined their bodies, no longer the slave but her master. Seizing control, he moved inside her, and she moaned with the pleasure of it. Each thrust heightened the exquisite agony. When she would have closed her eyes, he caught her cheeks in his hands and his gaze locked with hers. “Look at me,” he ordered. “See the man who loves you.”

  She did look. His blue eyes held no secrets now; they burned with the beauty of love. He penetrated deeply, filling her, pressing harder and faster. She strained to meet him, matching his passion with a wildness of her own. Gazing into his eyes, she saw his face darken with the approach of climax and felt a surge of emotion so powerful that she convulsed with ecstasy.

  For long moments afterward, she lay in his arms, utterly content and sated. The aroma of roses enveloped them along with the musk of their lovemaking. Her wedding ring glinted in the firelight. She stretched and sighed, cuddling against his warm, hard form. How she had missed this—not just the closeness of their bodies, but the sense of completion, the feeling that she belonged with Drake, now and forever.

  His hand traveled in lazy strokes over her hip. “I see my lady is pleased with her slave.”

  The arrogance was back in his voice, and she thrilled to it. Smiling, she plucked a petal from his shoulder. “I believe I’ll keep you after all.”

  “So long as you don’t expect me to dress like a damned fool anymore.”

  “What, and deprive Fergus of his amusement?” she teased. “I can see you clad as an Indian in a loincloth, an Arabic prince in gauzy trousers, a—”

  “Enough.” His eyes twinkling, he kissed her. Then, with a look of concentration, he tipped up her chin, touching her as if she were beloved to him. His voice gruff, he said, “In all honesty, Alicia, I’d have come crawling on my knees to get you back. I even considered selling the club, since you so despise gambling.”

  She quickly shook her head. “Oh, but you mustn’t put Mr. Cheever and Mr. MacAllister and all the others out of work. Where would they go?”

  He nodded. “That’s exactly what I thought—and what I’d hoped you would say.”

  “But surely you won’t be spending as much time here. You’ll have other duties now.”

  “Quite so.” All charming rogue, he let his fingers circle her breast, causing the rise of arousal in her. “I shall be keeping my wife contented.”

  “I meant your duties as the Marquess of Hailstock,” she said gently.

  Grimacing, he flopped onto his back, sending rose petals fluttering off the bed. “Don’t call me that. I never wanted the damned title.”

  Seeing his discomfort, she perversely reveled in it. “Such are the wages of vengeance, my lord.”

  “Jade. Don’t forget that vengeance brought me into your life.”

  “Jackanapes,” she said tartly, wriggling against him. “Don’t you forget that I made you a better man.”

  He focused his scoundrel’s smile on her, the smile that always made her heart beat faster. “You’ll have a lifetime to remind me of my sins. But for now, dear wife…”—his hands drifted possessively over her—“for now, I intend to seduce you again.”

  Turn the page for a sneak peek at

  Olivia Drake’s latest book

  Stroke of Midnight

  Available June 2013 wherever books are sold

  Chapter 1

  She had no reason to fear the constable.

  Holding fast to that thought, Laura followed the burly officer through the graveyard. The cloudy afternoon cast a gloomy pall over the rows of headstones and wooden crosses. A few of the mounds had been carefully tended, though many others showed signs of neglect. Rough masculine laughter came from one of the gin houses in the surrounding slums. It was the only sound besides the squelching of the constable’s boots on the sodden ground and the patter of her own footsteps.

  Though any woman in her circumstances might feel a bit nervous, Laura had more reason than most to be wary. She reminded herself that the constable could have no notion of her true identity. A decade had passed since she and her father had fled London. She had been someone else then, leading another life under a different surname. A lady garbed in silk and jewels rather than the drab commoner she was now.

  No one in this vast city knew her anymore. Miss Laura Falkner, toast of society, was as dead as the poor souls in this paupers’ cemetery.

  The constable glanced over his shoulder, the dark sockets of his eyes boring into her. “Almost there, Miss Brown.”

  Laura kept her face expressionless. Had a stray curl escaped her bonnet? She hoped not, for the police surely had a description of her that included mention of her distinctive tawny-gold hair. “You’ve done more than your duty, sir. If you’ll point me in the right direction, you can be on your way.”

  “’Tis no trouble to take ye there. No trouble at all.”

  His insistence increased her disquiet. He continued onward, his large head moving back and forth to examine the gravestones. What was his name again? Officer Pangborn. She had not wanted an escort, but he’d insisted that no decent female should venture alone into these crime-ridden stews.

  Laura had acquiesced only because a refusal might arouse suspicion. She had taken a risk in going to the police in the first place. But she’d needed to learn more about her father’s recent death and also to discover the site of his final resting place.

  Papa!

  The wind tossed a spattering of icy raindrops at her face. Shivering, she drew the cloak more securely around herself. After so many years in the sunshine of Portugal, she had forgotten the damp chill of an English springtime. Or perhaps it was just that she’d suppressed the memory of her old life before she and Papa had escaped into exile.

  Now he lay dead. Murdered by an unknown assailant in an alley near Covent Garden. The shock of it still numbed her. News of the attack had arrived while she’d been tending the garden outside their little cottage in the mountains of Portugal. How contented she’d been that day, trimming the ca
mellias, weeding the arum lilies, while having no inkling of the disaster that was about to shatter her tranquility. Then a boy from the village had delivered a letter from the London police stating that one Martin Brown lay severely injured, that her address had been found in his pocket. She’d departed in a rush, traveling for many days over land and sea, only to learn that her father had succumbed to his wounds shortly after the letter had been posted.

  Laura swallowed past the painful lump in her throat. At their last parting, Papa had told her he would be gone for a fortnight on business—she had presumed to Lisbon to buy and sell antiquities, their only source of income. Instead, he must have boarded a ship to England. Why?

  Why would he go back to a place where he would be tried and hanged if captured?

  “There ’tis, Miss.”

  Constable Pangborn stopped near the low stone wall that marked the perimeter of the cemetery. The middle-aged officer had muttonchop whiskers and the bulky build of a prizefighter. He had been out on patrol when he’d found Papa lying sorely injured in the alleyway. Now, as he pointed his wooden truncheon at a nearby grave site, his speculative gaze remained fixed on Laura.

  Her skin prickled. She couldn’t shake the sense that he knew more about her than he let on. Had Papa in a delirium on his deathbed revealed his real identity? Did this officer believe she’d been her father’s accomplice in the jewel theft that had rocked society ten years ago?

  She warned herself not to make wild assumptions. More likely, Pangborn’s interest in her was of a carnal nature. Over the years, she’d had ample experience in discouraging such lechers.

  Laura leveled a cool stare at him. “Your assistance has been very helpful,” she said in polite dismissal. “I shall bid you good day now.”

  His thick Wellington boots remained planted in place. “I have me orders, miss. I’m to guard ye from harm.”

  “The sergeant bade you only to escort me to the cemetery. You’ve already done more than enough.”

  “There be drunkards and thieves roaming these stews, ready to pounce on a wee creature such as yourself. I’ll see ye home—and that’s that.”

  Home was a cheap lodging house in an area nearly as wretched as this one. Yet Laura would sooner risk the walk alone than let this man learn her temporary place of residence. If the constable really did harbor a suspicion about her true identity, he might search her portmanteau and find the news article about the decade-old robbery that she’d clipped from an English paper. Then he would have proof that she was the notorious Miss Laura Falkner.

  She dipped her chin in a pretense of humble acceptance. “That’s very good of you, sir. If I may, I should like a few minutes alone now. Kindly await me at the entrance gate.”

  Constable Pangborn scowled as if gauging her sincerity. Then he gave a curt nod and marched away, glancing back several times over his shoulder. The breeze carried the far-off sounds of conviviality along with a fishy stench from the nearby Thames.

  She watched until he reached the gate before lowering her gaze to the grave site. Weeds already had sprouted on the freshly turned mound. A small square of stone lay flat on the ground, and a name was chiseled into the surface: MARTIN BROWN.

  Heedless of the damp earth, Laura sank to her knees in a billow of gray skirts. Tears blurred her eyes as she reached out to trace the crude letters with a gloved fingertip. “Papa,” she whispered brokenly. “Papa.”

  The harsh reality of his death struck her anew. She hunched over the grave, weeping, no longer able to stem the tide of sorrow. He had been the very best of fathers, full of good cheer and wise words, concerned more for her happiness than his own. He had treated her as an equal and schooled her as the son he’d always wanted. He didn’t deserve to have suffered such a brutal end—or to lie forgotten in a pauper’s tomb. His memory should be honored with a fine marble headstone carved with haloed angels and a loving tribute.

  And it should bear his true name: MARTIN FALKNER.

  With trembling fingers, she plucked out the weeds and tossed them aside. Someone here in London had destroyed his good reputation. Someone had deliberately planted evidence to make him appear guilty of stealing the Blue Moon diamond. Had her father returned to England to track down the villain? Why had he done so without telling her?

  It must have been the quarrel they’d had over that news clipping.

  When Papa had brought home the broadsheet and she’d noticed the small article, it had resurrected her buried anger over their forced flight from England ten years earlier. She’d spoken bitterly about the injustice of their exile. They had exchanged sharp words over her wish to restore their standing in society. But when his expression had turned melancholy, she’d regretted her mistake in bringing up the topic and had hastily reassured him of her contentment. It had been only a day later that he’d set out on his fateful journey …

  Across the cemetery, a bulky form started down the path, arms swinging purposefully. Constable Pangborn!

  The prospect of leaving the grave site wrenched her heart. Yet Laura dared delay no longer. Leaning down, she whispered, “My dearest Papa … good-bye.”

  She sprang to her feet and made haste to the stone wall. Since it stood no higher than her bosom, the barrier should be easily climbable. Hitching up her skirts, she found a few toeholds and hoisted herself to the top. Hard work and mountain hiking had strengthened her limbs, one more reason to be thankful she was no longer the fragile debutante.

  “You there!” Pangborn shouted. “Stop!”

  Dear heaven, she’d been right to mistrust the officer.

  A bramble hooked her hem, causing a brief delay. Laura yanked herself free and scrambled over the wall. As she landed, her shoes slid on a mound of damp leaves. Her arms wheeled as she caught her balance, only just managing to stay upright.

  She risked a backward glance. The constable had left the path and sprinted on a straight course over the graves. The scowl that darkened his whiskered face sent a chill into Laura’s heart. There could be no doubt he meant to arrest her.

  As he neared the wall, she plunged into the maze of narrow streets.

  Copyright © 2013 by Olivia Drake

  Also by Olivia Drake

  If the Slipper Fits

  Never Trust a Rogue

  Scandal of the Year

  Seducing an Heiress

  OLIVIA DRAKE

  OLIVIA DRAKE is a New York Times bestselling author who lives in Texas. Her novels have won critical acclaim and numerous industry awards, including the prestigious RITA. She invites you to visit www.oliviadrake.com.

  SEDUCED BY A SCOUNDREL

  Copyright © 1999 by Olivia Drake.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  ISBN: 0-312-97272-5

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / December 1999

  eISBN 9781466841154

  First eBook edition: April 2013