Seduced by the Scoundrel Page 13

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘Averil, I have explained. You know who I am, what I am. I cannot marry—’

  ‘A merchant’s daughter,’ she spat.

  ‘An Englishwoman.’ Even as he equivocated he felt guilt at not matching her burning honesty.

  ‘That is not what I meant. Of course I don’t want you to marry me any more than you want to marry me, but could you not have trusted me to refuse? Did you think I want to trap you into marriage?’

  ‘No, I did not think that.’ Was that the truth? Why had he been so vehement? It had felt, for a second, almost like fear. Fear of something he did not understand, something that would turn his world on its head. He tried to focus on the important thing, protecting her from the consequences of all this. ‘Lord Bradon may not understand. He does not know you as I do.’

  ‘That is most certainly true—no man does!’

  ‘Exactly. Averil, listen to me. He does not need to know about any of this.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘Yes, he does. This is the man I have promised to marry. I intend to spend the rest of my life with him and I will, God willing, bear his children. I cannot be anything less than honest with him just because I do not know him.’

  He took her by the shoulders and pulled her round so he could see her face in the moonlight. ‘You will tell him that I found you naked, that I nursed you for days, that you slept with me in my bed?’

  ‘Certainly.’ If he did not know her so well he would have missed the slight shake in her voice. ‘It is only right that he knows that I am not quite what he expects me to be. But I am contracted. My father gave his word—’

  ‘You are not a shipload of tea that has been bought and paid for, damn it!’ He shook the rigid shoulders under his hands. ‘Forget this merchant’s obsession with contracts and use some sense. He will reject you out of hand if you tell him all this.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ she said, cool as spring water. ‘I have a very large dowry and I hope he is able to see beyond his male prejudices and recognise the truth when he hears it. Will you let go of me, please?’

  He kept his hands right where they were. ‘You know he wants you for your money and yet you will humiliate yourself by confessing all this to him? You talk about a lifetime together, children—do you think he thinks about these things?’

  ‘I am sure he thinks about children. This is, whatever you say, a business deal, a partnership with the succession a major factor. Don’t tell me that the marriage you are considering will be anything else—a love match, perhaps? You will buy a French bloodline to ally with yours. Would you want your wife to come to you with lies on her tongue?’

  She shifted in his grip but he held tight to the slender shoulders. ‘Of course I would, if there was nothing serious to confess and if by speaking she ruined everything! Every marriage must contain secrets—and that way lies peace and coexistence. An arranged marriage is not some emotional entanglement.’ That was what he wanted. That was safe. No one could hurt your heart and your soul when neither of you cared deeply. He took another deep breath and tried to convince her.

  ‘You are a virgin, you are not carrying my child, I am never going to see you again once you leave this island. It is over, finished. Why ruin the rest of your life for nothing?’

  ‘Honour?’ Her tone made him flinch.

  ‘A woman’s honour lies in her chastity. You are a virgin.’ She gave a little sob that was not grief. Anger, perhaps, or frustration. ‘If you insist on this course then I must come with you. Bradon will want to call me out. That is a matter of honour.’

  He must have jerked her closer without realising. His senses were flooded with the scent of her, the familiar Averil-scent of her skin mingling with the soap she had bathed with and the musk of excited, angry female. His body stirred into instant arousal.

  ‘I have no intention of telling him who you are. This mission will remain secret, I assume? I cannot imagine that they will want it trumpeted that an admiral’s cousin has been involved in treason and was thwarted by a Frenchman. Do you think I want you swaggering in, provoking a duel? What if you are killed?’

  ‘I would not be the one killed. And I do not swagger.’

  ‘Ha!’ She tossed her head. ‘And if you kill my betrothed? Do you think that a duel could be kept secret? You will ruin me—for what? Your honour. Not mine.’

  ‘Damn it, Averil.’ What she said was the truth. If she insisted on doing this insane thing then he must stand aside and allow her to do it, at whatever cost to his own honour. ‘What will you do if he rejects you?’

  ‘I do not know.’ She stared at him, her face black and white and silver in the moonlight. He saw her bite her lip and a tremor ran through her, a vibration of fear under his hands. Then she collected herself. ‘He won’t. He wouldn’t.’

  ‘He might, he very well might. And then you will be ruined. Think of the scandal. Where will you go?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ There was that shiver again. Her brave front was just that—underneath she knew the dangers of what she was intending to do. ‘I suppose … I could always go home again.’

  ‘Or you could become my mistress.’ Even as he said it, Luc knew it was what he was hoping for. He wanted her and if Bradon rejected her the choices before her were few.

  She could travel back to India, a perilous three-month voyage with the shame of her story following her; she could seek, without support, to find herself a less fastidious husband or she could join the demi-reps.

  ‘Your mistress?’ For a moment she did not seem to understand, then her whole body went rigid with indignation. ‘Why, you … you bastard! You don’t think I am good enough to marry, but you would keep me for your pleasure!’ She wrenched round, fighting his grip. ‘Let me go—’

  Luc shifted his grip, afraid of hurting her, too aroused to release her. She thudded against his chest and he held her with one hand splayed on her back, the other in her hair, and kissed her.

  He told himself it was to stop her creating a scene and bringing the others out into the garden. That degree of rational thought lasted long enough for him to open his mouth over hers and thrust his tongue between her tight lips as though he thrust himself into her virgin body. It was wrong, it was gloriously right, it was heaven. She tasted of wine and fruit and woman and he lost himself, drowning in her, until she twisted, jerking her knee up. If it were not for her hampering skirts she would have had him, square in the groin. As it was, her knee hit him with painful force on the thigh and he tore his mouth free.

  ‘How could you?’ she said, her voice as shaky as his legs had become. Luc took an unobtrusive grip on the statue base beside him and opened his mouth to apologise. Then he saw her face in the moonlight. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted, but it was not the face of a fearful woman, a woman who had been assaulted. It was the face of a woman in the throes of passion and uncertainty. There was longing and fear and excitement; she was as affected by that kiss as he was.

  ‘You value honesty and truth,’ Luc said, ignoring her question. If he was right her words had been aimed as much at herself as at him. ‘Tell me that you did not want me to kiss you. Tell me that you do not want to be my lover. Make me believe you.’

  ‘You arrogant devil,’ she whispered.

  ‘Go on, tell me. Surely that is much easier than confessing what happened on St Martin’s to Bradon?’

  ‘It would be wrong. Sinful, if I felt like that.’

  ‘I asked for facts, not a moral judgement,’ he said and saw her flinch at his harshness.

  ‘Yes,’ she threw back at him. ‘Yes, I want to be your lover. Yes, I want to give my virginity to you. There—does that make you feel better? Because it makes me feel wretched.’ And that time her sob was one of grief as well as anger.

  ‘Averil.’ The lust drained from him as rapidly as it had come, leaving him empty. ‘Averil,’ and he lifted his hand to touch her cheek. He could not take her virginity, he knew that. If she had a faint chance of making this m
arriage happen, then he had to leave it to her. Somehow he had let himself care that much.

  The tendrils of hair that curled around her ears brushed his fingers as she made a little sound that might have been a shocked gasp, that might have been Yes, and feeling came back in a rush. A reluctant tenderness and desire and the realisation that she was his for the asking, here, now.

  ‘You will go to London and you will be brave and honest and if Bradon does not take you with open arms, then the man is a fool,’ he said. He could not entrap her in the coils of her innocent passion, but he could plan for the inevitable.

  ‘I would rather not marry a fool,’ she said, a shaky laugh in her voice. ‘I hope he is a good, compassionate man who will forgive all this and makes a kind husband. I hope he makes me feel like this when he touches me.’ Luc pulled her into his arms and bent his head. ‘No,’ she whispered.

  ‘Let me make love to you, Averil. This once. I swear you will go to him as much a virgin as you are now.’ And then, when Bradon showed her the door, she would know who to turn to—her desire and her passion would bring her to him.

  She tipped up her head, her expression in the silver light eager, all the anger gone. ‘You can do that?’

  ‘I can give you pleasure and not harm you if you will trust me.’ It was not harm, he told his conscience. The choices were all with the other man.

  ‘Here? But—’

  ‘Here.’ He guided her into the arbour that faced away from the house towards the shelter of the slope. ‘Here, now.’

  She trusted him. Why, she did not know, for this was her virtue she was risking, not her life, which she knew he would protect at the cost of his. Luc had asked her to be his mistress, he had kissed her until she was dizzy with desire, he was the last man she should yield herself to. And yet she had no will to deny him. Or was it herself that would not be denied?

  He pulled her down with him on to the broad-planked seat and kissed her, slowly, druggingly, until analysis was impossible and all that was left was the heat and strength of him and the caress of his mouth and the drift of his hands.

  The neckline of the simple gown was no barrier to long fingers sliding under the lace trim to catch and tease her nipples. He rolled them between finger and thumb until she squirmed against him, panting with shocked pleasure. It was as though the wicked play of his fingers pulled on hot wires that led straight to the pulse that beat with urgent insistence between her legs. Averil moaned against his mouth and he stroked his tongue into hers as though to soothe, yet the caress was like pouring oil on to the flames of desire.

  ‘Please,’ she gasped against his lips. ‘Please …’

  She did not know what she was asking for, what to expect. The night air on her legs as Luc’s hand lifted the full silken skirts made her stiffen, but his mouth and his other hand on her breast held her in thrall. Her hands were clasping his head, her fingers laced into the dark hair, his skull hard and shapely under her palms.

  ‘Relax,’ he said and she almost laughed because she was quivering with tension like an over-tightened violin string and surely she must snap. Luc had her sprawled in utter abandon across his thighs. The hand on her breast held her to him, the other smoothed back the rustling silken skirts until her legs and the paleness of her belly were exposed. In the semi-darkness the dark triangle at the top of her thighs showed stark against the white skin.

  ‘Luc,’ she whispered. It was shameful and shameless, but he was looking at her with utter concentration, his palm smoothing down over the quivering skin, and under her she felt the heat and thrust of his erection. He found her desirable, and that was infinitely exciting.

  But he had promised he would not take her virginity, so what happened now? Surely he would not leave her in this state—aching and needing and so taut that she was trembling?

  His big, calloused hand cupped her mound under its sheltering curls as his mouth caught her whimper of protest. One finger slid between the hot, wet folds and began to rub in time to the thrust of his tongue and Averil arched into his palm, pressing against it, instinctively trying to intensify the pleasure.

  He had found that tiny knot of sensation where the strange, aching pulse quivered into life every time he touched her and he teased it until he found the rhythm that had her sobbing into his mouth. ‘More,’ she said, her tongue tangling the word into a groan. ‘Oh, more, Luc. More.’

  Somehow he must have understood. He lifted his mouth from hers and she saw the glint of moonlight on his teeth as he smiled. ‘More like this?’ he asked and slid a finger deep into her.

  She clenched around him, tight, desperate, as the tension swept through her, an irresistible wave, and she lost all hold on reality and screamed as his kiss swallowed the betraying sound.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘We had better go in.’

  In where? Averil wondered, as she drifted back to reality. Or perhaps it was a dream. She was warm and safe and Luc was holding her and little ripples of pleasure kept running through her body. If they went in, wherever that was, the pleasure would stop.

  ‘No,’ she mumbled against his shirt front and heard the laugh rumble in his chest.

  ‘Yes. Come on. Can you stand up?’

  ‘No.’ But he stood up anyway and she found her feet were on the ground, even though she had to hold tight to Luc’s lapels. Her legs had no more substance than a rag doll’s, her pulse was beating wildly and she wanted to do it all over again. Everything, and in a bed this time. But, of course, she could not. This had been once, and never again.

  Averil stumbled as Luc helped her outside, his hand under her elbow. ‘That was good?’ he asked. Somehow she could not resent the thread of amusement in his voice.

  ‘Amazing,’ she said honestly. ‘What was it?’

  ‘An orgasm,’ he explained, still managing to stay serious, although she guessed her ignorance was a novelty for him.

  ‘Don’t you need one, too?’ Thank goodness it was dark so her crimson cheeks were not visible.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Luc said. ‘It will be all right.’

  ‘Oh.’ Presumably that meant he would seek out whatever women in Hugh Town made their living seeing to the needs of the gentlemen of the island. At least they would not ask him foolishly naïve questions.

  ‘You are naturally very passionate,’ Luc said, his voice low. They were walking up and down a path parallel to the house; some sense of reality was returning to her. She could make out the shape of Miss Gordon strolling on the terrace, out of earshot: their tactful, ineffectual, chaperone. Was that deliberate on her part?

  ‘You don’t really want me to be your mistress,’ Averil murmured back. ‘I am ignorant and inexperienced.’

  ‘And sensual and natural and very lovely. Of course I want you.’ He began to make his way back to the house. Averil dragged her feet—what if the others knew what they had been doing? He seemed to guess at her reluctance. ‘Don’t worry, it will not be branded on your forehead I had an orgasm in the summerhouse.’

  ‘Don’t say such things!’ she whispered, agitated.

  ‘Pretend to be angry with me,’ Luc said. ‘That will convince Lady Olivia that we have been discussing the question of marriage and are set against each other and it will explain any colour in your cheeks. If you are determined to go through with this madness, then go to Bradon. I will give you an address. If you need me—when you do—send me word.’

  ‘You really expect me to turn up on your doorstep asking to become your mistress, don’t you?’ she said, reaction turning into something very like anger in reality.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I look forward to it.’

  Averil whirled out of his light grip and half ran down the path to Miss Gordon. ‘It is quite impossible, ma’am, we should never suit, even if it was right that I should break my contract with Lord Bradon. I beg you, please help me to make my way to London.’

  ‘Of course.’ The other woman looked past Averil to where Luc stood on the path. ‘My brot
her will advance the money for a chaise from Penzance and your lodgings on the way. You had better take Waters with you as your maid. We will give you instructions to my brother’s agent in the port—he will find you respectable lodgings and then hire a chaise and reliable postilions. You must spend at least two nights on the road, I fear, for it is over three hundred miles. Do you think you can manage by yourself?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Averil said with real gratitude. The thought of dealing with the practicalities of travel sounded blissfully straightforward after the emotional turmoil of the past week. ‘I am used to long journeys in India and a chaise with postilions sounds much easier to deal with than ox carts and elephants!’

  Miss Gordon laughed and urged her inside and towards the stairs. There were footsteps on the terrace behind her, but Averil did not turn around.

  *

  ‘Good morning, miss.’ The curtains swished back with a rattle of rings.

  ‘Good morning, Waters. Hot chocolate? How delightful.’ To wake in a soft bed with light streaming through a wide, clean window: luxury. Lonely luxury. Averil curled her fingers around the cup and inhaled with a shiver of delight as the aroma banished the lingering memory of Pott’s evil tea.

  ‘Miss Gordon says, will you come down for breakfast, miss, or would you like to take it in bed?’

  ‘I will come down, thank you.’ She slid out of bed, still cradling the chocolate cup, and went to the wash stand. ‘Miss Gordon said you might be willing to come with me to London, Waters.’

  ‘Yes, please, miss. I’m a London girl myself, you see, and I came down here because my young man got a job as a footman, but we fell out and I miss my mam and the young ones something awful. And I miss London, too.’

  Averil dipped the toothbrush in the pot of powder. ‘I can’t promise there will be a permanent position for you—that depends on what Lord Bradon, my betrothed, says.’