Sins & Scoundrels Books 1-3: A Regency Romance Series Bundle

by Scarlett Scott

  Freddy’s lips thinned into a fine line of irritation. “First, you deserve nothing less than a husband who acknowledges you are the center of his day, the very driving force. Second, I saw the manner in which Searle touched you the evening he compromised you. I saw his expression. It was not the countenance of a man who is not helplessly, hopelessly attracted to you. Rather, it was the opposite.”

  Of course, Freddy would think so. She had always been her champion.

  “I do not know what to do,” she admitted, a new sense of helplessness, mingling with despair, darkening her mood like a stain blotting an ivory skirt. “I want children, Freddy. I want our children to take their first steps together.”

  Her friend’s expression turned determined. “Then the answer is simple, my dear. He is your husband, for fair or foul, and nothing shall change that now. If you want a babe of your own—and I know how much your heart aches for it—you must seduce your husband. I am afraid you have no other choice.”

  *

  “Bloody hell,” Morgan growled, scowling down at the muck he had made of his ledgers.

  Concentration was proving more difficult than ever before. Initially, upon his return from the Continent and war, he had been unable to perform the smallest tasks without suffering from a crippling anxiety. He had hidden within the safe, familiar confines of Linley House, plotting his revenge against Rayne. He had slept in the bed of his youth because it had felt like where he belonged. Moving to the marquess’s apartments had required time and adjustments and ample amounts of spirits, but he had managed.

  The problem, however, was not his time at war or his days of imprisonment, nor was it his presence at Linley House, nor his usurping of the marquisate from his brother George—who would have been a far better man for the task than Morgan could ever hope to be. No, indeed. The problem, this time, lay elsewhere.

  His wife.

  The Marchioness of Searle was rotting his brain. That was what she was doing, and there was no other, more precise means of describing the perplexing trap in which he now found himself. The mere thought of her name was enough to make him burn. Four syllables, just as many vowels, and how it could encompass such flowering beauty in its mere utterance, he would never know.

  Leonora.

  Leonora of the flaxen hair, flashing blue eyes, delectable pink lips, prick-hardening curves, and the endless chorus of no. For one whole sennight—seven days, and he had counted them more than once because they seemed more like an eternity—his new wife had kept him at bay. She had yet to even allow him a kiss since he had left her on their wedding day, a departure which had been not just for his sake but hers as well.

  Her bearing was eternally rigid, her expression whenever he was in her presence akin to a woman facing a phalanx of enemy soldiers about to pillage and plunder her home. As a result, he had spent most of his waking hours out of her presence. He returned in the evenings, hoping she might be awake, only to find her chamber enshrouded in darkness each time, echoing the silence of her refusal to allow him into her bed.

  Though he was using her for his vengeance, he had no wish to take her by force. Therefore, he had bided his time. At first, he had been content to allow her to remain aloof. He feared he no longer had the skills of seduction within him, and he little knew how to be gentle in lovemaking after spending the last few years mired within savagery and battles to the death.

  Part of him had been afraid he would hurt her, that the raging lust coursing through him whenever he saw her would somehow tear her apart. He had never bedded a virgin before, and it had been a long time since he had fucked anything other than his hand. The trulls following the army were not the game of chance he preferred to play, as he wanted to remain free of the pox.

  And so, it had been years since he had made love to a woman. Since he had touched soft, silken skin, since he had kissed his way up the inside of a well-curved thigh. It had been so long, he groaned now, just thinking about Leonora, about her flesh smelling of sweet sunshine and spring flowers, of how warm and pliant her skin had been. He thought about wrapping his fist in the glorious cloud of her golden hair, holding her head still for the onslaught of his kiss.

  It would have to happen soon, and not just because he hungered for her the same way he desired his next breath, his next meal, his next drink of water. Which he most assuredly did. But because his time was waning. He had a plan to set into motion, and that plan could not move forward until he had Leonora in his bed.

  He expected the Earl of Rayne to reappear on England’s shores, like the pestilence he was, any day now. That meant Morgan’s time to consummate his marriage and set in place the makings of his ultimate revenge were long overdue. He needed to make Leonora his in every way.

  He dipped his pen in the ink well, drawing off the excess from the tip before crossing out the mathematical errors he had made. He wondered if he was the problem, if his mind was the problem, and not just his distraction. All along, he had been the second son, the spare heir his father and mother had created before never speaking to each other without an intermediary again, duty to the title duly completed.

  His father and George had both perished in the time Morgan had been away at war, his mother long before the both of them. Which meant, freshly returned from battle and imprisonment, he was the second son who had never imagined he would one day take up the reins of the Marquess of Searle, scrambling to find his footing on a deuced slippery slope. And now, though he wished he could be concerned with his estates as he ought, what he wanted more than anything was the Earl of Rayne facing him on the field of honor.

  The victory would be hollow, and he already knew it. But the victory would be his, perhaps one manner in which he could reclaim what had been taken from him.

  A light tap at the door disrupted his troubled musings, and he returned his pen to the ink well. “Enter.”

  His butler, Huell, appeared, unsmiling as ever. “My lord, Lady Searle has returned from her social calls.”

  At. Bloody. Last.

  Clenching his jaw, he stood. “Thank you, Huell.”

  He had inquired after whether or not his wife had returned from her visit to Mrs. Duncan Kirkwood on no less than five separate occasions already. Finally, no doubt growing impatient with Morgan’s repeated interruptions, Huell had taken it upon himself to keep Morgan apprised of his wife’s whereabouts.

  His butler bowed and retreated.

  Morgan stalked into the main hall, irritated to discover it was already empty. All that remained was the sweet floral trail of her scent, the sole sign she had ever traversed the polished boards so recently. It lingered like a ghost.

  But this time, he would not allow her to escape. This time, he would seek her out. Before his mind had even processed coherent thought, Morgan’s feet were already eating up the space separating him from his wife. He took the last stairs two at a time, took the second-floor hall at a canter, and slipped into his apartments.

  She was likely in her chamber, changing or perhaps preparing to attend to her correspondence. He had made a great effort not to force his presence upon her thus far in their fledgling marriage. But the time of exerting his patience and waiting had rapidly drawn to an end. He had no more freedom to be gracious. Leonora needed to face him, to understand she was his wife now, inextricably so.

  He had been hoping she would soften. Perhaps even meet him halfway.

  But he could not wait any longer. He had to act.

  Morgan opened the door and crossed the threshold, stepping over the invisible line which had separated him from his wife for the last seven days. She was within, for he smelled the sweetness of her scent before he saw her, in the midst of changing her gown with the aid of her lady’s maid.

  Leonora froze when her gaze settled upon him, and so did the domestic assisting her.

  “My lord,” said his wife, her frosty tone proof he had yet to redeem himself in her eyes.

  When she discovered the truth, he would be incapable of redeeming himself,
so it was a moot point if she already found him hopeless.

  “My lady.” He bowed, sending a meaningful glance toward the woman tending her.

  The lady’s maid instantly curtsied and excused herself with such haste he was surprised she did not stumble over the hem of her gown.

  He waited for the door to close completely before further advancing upon his wife. Upon his scantily clad wife. His gaze trailed over her form, savoring her, for she wore nothing more than a chemise and stockings. And as his gaze lingered over the delectable swell of her bosom, her nipples hardened into tight little buds that taunted him through her creamy linen. The pink tips were a tormenting silhouette beneath the gossamer fabric. His hands itched to grip the neckline and tear, exposing her to him. His mouth longed to suck.

  Holy God, he could barely withstand the crushing weight of desire slamming into him. The mound between her legs was almost completely visible, another, equally alluring shadow his mouth and hands wanted to explore.

  Leonora laced her fingers together, clasping them at her waist in a gesture he had already come to realize signified she was about to wage war. “What do you require of me, my lord?”

  So many things.

  So many deliciously wicked, filthy things.

  Beginning with that sweet mouth of hers open to receive his…

  Damnation. He forced his lust aside, willing his rampant erection to abate. Instead, he sought his voice. “The time has come, my lady.”

  Was it his imagination, or did her lips pinch? Did a small groove appear between her brows where none had previously existed?

  She swallowed, and there was no mistaking the action. “For what has the time come, my lord?”

  “Morgan,” he corrected her. Initially, he had been concerned that urging her to refer to him by his Christian name would lull them both into a false sense of familiarity.

  Now, he no longer cared. He was desperate to make her his. And not just because of his quest to gain revenge upon her half-brother, if he were brutally honest with himself. Rayne did not matter here.

  Rather, the ferocity of his need for her was a force all its own. It was beating inside him like the pulse of a heart, and he could not deny it any longer. He wanted her. The woman he had married was beautiful and imperfect and caring and good. She was not afraid to defy him. She did not falter when it came to maintaining her pride, and neither did she falter when it came to living her life. She suffered from pain—he knew she must—and yet, she never complained. Nor did he note the slightest inclination of her feeling sorry for herself.

  He wanted her body. He wanted her heart. He wanted her soul. Every part of her, all she had to give, but he somehow knew instinctively not even that would be enough. He was ravenous, starving, and only she could fill the void. He had to have her.

  Now. Right bloody now.

  “Morgan,” she repeated softly. “I wish for you to consummate our marriage.”

  Damnation. He was going to spend in his breeches without even touching her. It had been madness to allow a week to pass. Madness to think waiting would enable him to control his raging impulse to claim her. He wanted inside her. Wanted to bury his cock inside her pink, slippery flesh and fill her with his seed.

  To mark her as his.

  Forever.

  Four strides was all he required to reach her, and then, she was in his arms.

  Chapter Five

  Freddy had told her to seduce Searle, and Leonora was sure she had not meant for her to merely blurt the words I wish for you to consummate our marriage. But she did not have long to wait to discover whether or not her embarrassing attempt at swaying her new husband had been successful. Because he was upon her.

  There was really no other way to explain it. His hands were everywhere, a hot brand through her chemise, beginning at her waist, cupping her breasts, molding her bottom. He swept over her, leaving a trail of longing in his wake. As he touched her, his gaze traveled over her as well, scouring her flesh as surely as his touch.

  The silence was heady, heavy. Somehow, his lack of words heightened the moment, making her every sense sing. Her breasts felt full and achy, the mound between her thighs throbbed and pulsed. She could smell the earthy scent of him, the bergamot of his tea lacing his breath. She had never been so aware of her body, so aware of her own need to be pleasured. Of another person’s capacity to fulfill that desperate longing.

  He found her breasts again, cupping one, then rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger through the barrier of her chemise. When a gasp tore from her, he increased the pressure.

  “Tell me if I hurt you,” he rasped.

  His words took her by surprise, sending confusion skittering through her, along with a small tremor of alarm and a trill of something else, anticipation. His touch was firm but not rough. Pleasure tinged with an edge, just as he was. This man was dangerous, as she had thought all along, and she…she liked it.

  Craved it, in fact.

  He pinched her nipples harder, then rubbed lazy, soothing circles over them with his thumbs. His eyes scorched her, the amber flecks alive and alight. He dipped his head toward her, running the blade of his nose along hers and inhaling deeply, as if she were something delicious he wanted to savor. But still, he did not kiss her.

  His breath fell hot upon her lips, and she licked them, eager for this small part of him she could have. It shocked her to realize she was every bit as ravenous for Searle as he seemed for her.

  He pinched again, until a small moan left her. And then he rubbed his lower lip along hers. Nothing more. “You like this.”

  It was a statement, not a question. Because he could read her better than she could even understand herself. Pleasure and yearning were not new to her, but this—her reaction to the marquess and the way he seemed to anticipate what she wanted before she could even ask—took her by storm.

  She swallowed. “Yes.”

  A low sound, part growl, part groan, rumbled from deep within his broad chest. “You want this.”

  Good heavens, yes. She wanted what he was doing and more. How odd it seemed, how incredibly awakening, for this beautiful man in his fully-clothed elegance, scarcely touching her, and yet so thoroughly consuming her. And he had still yet to kiss her.

  Leonora nodded because she did not think she could speak. Her hands had landed upon his shoulders somehow in the aftermath of his seductive aggression, and her fingers tensed upon him now. He was warm, so very warm.

  He released her nipples and caught her lower lip between his teeth, delivering a nip that stung yet was somehow tender at the same time. “You are mine, Leonora. No matter what happens. Regardless of what is to come beyond these walls and beyond this moment. You are mine forever.”

  Yes, she was his now. It had not felt that way over the last week they had spent at daggers drawn, circling each other like duelists, afraid to make the first move. But it felt that way now, with him surrounding her with his hands on her body and…

  He stepped into her, pressing his hard body against her softness. She felt something long and thick through the layers between them, and she knew what it was, what it meant, for Freddy had explained a great deal more to her mere hours before. He raked his teeth down her neck, and her head fell back of its own accord, desperate for whatever ravishment he would give. Teeth and lips and tongue. He sucked at her throat, beneath her ear, then lower, once more at the place where her shoulder met her neck. These were places she had never bothered to touch herself, skin that had never clamored to be touched until this man.

  “Mine,” he said, finding her collarbone and biting. “Say the words, Leonora.”

  When she hesitated, he bit again. Harder this time, and she was sure it would leave a mark. She did not care.

  “I am yours,” she managed, breathless.

  “Yes, you are.” His voice was dark and resonating, and it made something inside her flutter and then burst wide open.

  Her leg pained her, but she was helpless to stop the reckless
desire coursing through her. She would stand here with him all day, his mouth and hands upon her, his body burning into hers. She never wanted it to end, except she did. She wanted more. She wanted to be closer. She wanted nothing between them but skin.

  The first time she had touched herself, she had not dared to do so directly. Rather, she had used her nightdress as a barrier to keep her shame from drowning her. In time, she had realized her nightdress was not necessary and that everything felt so much better without its encumbrance. She had no doubt Searle’s body and caresses would only be enhanced by the same removal of limitations.

  But just as the thought hit her, so, too, did an undulating tide of pain from her injury, radiating up her leg. She shifted again, attempting to remove all weight from it when he stilled.

  Perhaps he sensed her movement and knew what it meant without needing to ask. Perhaps he was carried away by her declaration. She would never know. But he had suddenly taken her up in his arms, and he was carrying her in the wrong direction. Not toward the beckoning invitation of her bed, but to his own chamber.

  “Searle,” she protested, flushed and needy and confused.

  He ignored her and kept walking.

  Her arms locked around his neck, and she could not help but to admire his profile. How strong his jaw was and set at a determined angle. His cravat was not tied with a fop’s love of intricate knots and falls, but simplistically instead, revealing far more of his neck than gentlemen ordinarily allowed.

  She wanted to bite him there as he had done to her. To sink her teeth into his flesh. To make him as wild and mindless as he had made her, with nothing more than a few simple touches and a wicked mouth. She ought to be ashamed of herself, shocked by her own reactions. What periphery-dwelling, lame-legged spinster entertained such beastly cravings?

  “I want you in my bed,” he told her, staring straight ahead as he carted her over the threshold and into his territory as if she weighed nothing.

  Yes.

  She thought she said the word aloud, agreeing with him, for there was suddenly no place she would rather be. But she could not be sure, because he had once again rattled her senses, addling her wits.