Confessions of a Scoundrel (15 page)

Of course, Brandon's admission was, in a way, reassuring. If he'd been the one to hold James's letters, he wouldn't have so quickly accepted her answer.

Whoever held James's letters believed that Humford's list was still in Westforth House. “Brandon, why do
you
need the list? Why is it so important?”

He looked at her from beneath his lashes for a long moment as if weighing his response. “Which question do you want answered first? Then it's my turn again.” He lifted a finger and traced the line of her cheek to the corner of her mouth. “Only I think my next question is going to have to do with how you look without all those clothes on.”

God, but he was delectable, especially like this, playful and seductive at the same time. He was mussed by the storm, thoroughly wet, his clothes hugging his body like a second skin, his blue gaze hot and possessive.
Blast it, this is not fair.

She had to swallow twice before she could answer. “I want an answer for both.”

His eyes narrowed. After a moment, he gave a short nod. “Very well, but then you'll owe. A lot.” He leaned forward to whisper softly, “And you will pay dearly.”

She supposed a sedate, prim sort of woman might find sitting in the lap of a man who was not her husband or her fiancé, somewhat…indiscreet. Chancy. Risque, even.

Verena found it exhilarating. She placed her hands to either side of his face. “If you answer those two questions, then in the morning I will answer
every
question you ask.”

He raised his brows. “In the morning?”

She pressed her lips to his forehead and then punctuated her words with soft, sensual kisses on his lips. “In. The. Morning.”

Brandon had to fight the urge to bury his face in her neck, to taste her skin, and kiss her with all the passion that was building inside him. Good God, but she was a work of contradictions, bold and brazen yet soft and feminine.

Most women he knew—even those as experienced as the never-missed Celeste—didn't excite him the way Verena did. She promised, teased, tormented, all in the same breath.

But she was also vibrantly real. She didn't attempt to be some pure icon of womanhood, but was rich, and warm, and utterly in possession of herself and her body.

It was intoxicating.

He placed his hand over one of hers where it lay against his cheek, his fingers laced through hers. “Very well—since we're sharing everything. I don't know exactly what is in Humford's list. Whatever it is, it has something to do with the Home Office.”

“James guessed something like that.” She smiled then, her teeth white and even. “He's very good at figuring things out.”

“You're fairly decent at it yourself.”

“I try,” she said simply. “I'm surprised you're going to such lengths to procure this list if the Home Office wants it. I wonder why…” She looked at him through her lashes and waited.

The little devil was trying to worm extra information out of him. He rubbed his thumb the
length of hers, sliding the pad of his thumb over her polished nail. “I want that blasted list because someone at the Home Office believes a friend of mine took it. If I don't recover it, he could face dire consequences.”

Her expression froze and something flickered deep in her eyes, but she said nothing.

Something was happening here, he could tell. But what? Was she hiding something? He shifted so that he could see her face in the firelight. “Verena, this is important.”

Her smile was strained. “I am beginning to realize that.”

“Why have
you
been trying to find that damned list?”

Her gaze turned secretive. “I have reasons—just as good as yours. Brandon…” She paused. “If your friend didn't take this list, then surely he is in no true danger.”

“There still would be a huge scandal. The strain on his father could be fatal.” He cupped her face firmly, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Do you understand, Verena? Whatever the cost, I
must
find that list.”

She placed her hands on his wrists, her gaze meeting his levelly. “That is a problem. You see, Brandon, I must find it, too. We are at loggerheads once again.”

T
hat was just her luck…for the first time in four years—four
long
years, Verena met a man who'd excited and thrilled her as much as Andrew and what happened? They were both on the trail of a ridiculous list…well, not too ridiculous considering that both Brandon's friend and James stood to lose quite a lot without it.

Life was never fair, but this seemed inordinately harsh—to flash such a delectable man before her and then ruthlessly steal him away. She felt as if she'd just found out her favorite scones would never again be served for tea.

Brandon, however, didn't seem the least upset. “Verena, we'll look for the list together. And we'll find it, too.”

“And then what?” Verena brushed her fingers over Brandon's cheek, marveling at the intoxicating feel of a man's rough skin beneath her fingertips, the soft prickle of stubble under her palm.

How long had it been since she'd felt that exact sensation? Four years? Almost five?
Andrew
. She closed her eyes and snuggled down until her forehead rested against Brandon's cheek. A twinge of guilt flickered through her.
Stop it
, she told herself. Andrew would have never questioned her right to continue living her life after he'd died. He believed in living in the present, in tasting everything there was to taste, in reaching out and taking all that life had to give and reveling in each and every moment.

Somewhere, deep in her mind, she could almost hear his voice, encouraging her to take chances. To live, once again.

“Verena?” Brandon's warm voice slid about her.

She shivered and wrapped her arms more tightly about him. “Brandon, no more questions.” She couldn't stand it for another minute. She needed him, wanted him—feelings she'd thought were dead stirred to life and required immediate attention.

Brandon's mouth tightened as if he'd argue, but then his gaze met hers, hot and demanding. “We will finish this conversation in the morning.”

“The very first thing,” she agreed, sliding her hands over his shoulders to his arms. It wasn't enough. She placed her lips on his temple and traced a line to his cheek. Heat built within her, swirling through her and sending shivers down her spine.

He lifted his mouth to hers, capturing her lips. He kissed her deeply, parting her lips with his tongue. She shivered beneath the onslaught, his tongue stroking the edge of hers. It was erotic, the mimicry he committed on her mouth. Her body softened, melted, heated. She moaned against him, opening her mouth wider, her arms going around his neck, holding him closer, pressing herself against him, moving restlessly in his lap, her thighs damp with desire.

His hands spanned her back, cupped her bottom, held her closer. Every touch sent a burst of fire through her, tightening her breasts, shivering down her stomach, coming to rest between her thighs where a dull ache grew.

She threaded her fingers through his thick, damp hair where it curled over his ears. God, but she wanted him. Desired him. Burned for him.

He broke the kiss, his breathing harsh in the silence. “Verena, are you certain—” He couldn't seem to form the rest of the sentence.

But she knew he was giving her one last chance to regain control.

But did she want control? She wanted him. And she knew that tonight would be a night she'd never forget. Verena caught his hand, lifting it to her lips. She loved his hands. Long and strongly formed, she was certain they were made for touching a woman, for bringing her to a world of pleasure. Locking his gaze with hers, she pressed a kiss between each finger, letting her tongue flick out and taste the delicate webbing between.

His breath grew harsher. She'd almost reached his last finger, when he curled his hand into a fist.
“For the love of God, stop!” he said hoarsely. “I won't be able to—”

She kissed his lips, gently. “It's time we took off our clothes. Together.”

That word had a delicious feel to it—
together
. Verena sat up in his lap and untied the ribbon that held her gown. The strip of pink silk slid through the gathers and pulled free. Her gown gaped at the neck. Verena held the ribbon at arm's length and let it slither to the ground, a puddle of lush pink on the red carpet.

Then she placed her hands on the loose neck of her gown and pushed the material down, over her shoulders, to her waist. All she wore was her chemise, thin and damp from his embrace. It showed far more than it should have, her nipples clearly evident through the thin material.

Brandon watched, his eyes unusually bright, as if he suffered a slight fever.

Verena leaned closer to him and whispered against his ear. “I have taken my gown half off. It's your turn now.”

He rested his head against the high back of the chair and glinted a smile, his blue eyes vivid in the glow of the firelight. “You believe in fair play.”

“Always.”

He tugged on his cravat. His fingers fumbled over the knot, but he persisted. She watched him, her eagerness building with each passing second. The moment seemed interminable.

Finally, just as her impatience was at the breaking point, the knot slipped free. Brandon yanked off his cravat and then leaned forward to do the
same with his shirt. One right after the other, his cravat and shirt fell to the ground.

The sight of his bared chest caused her to shiver in delight. Broad and sculpted, he was as finely made as a statue, his chest muscles magnificent, his stomach ribbed and tightly drawn. She splayed her hands over him, running her fingers over every rich inch, lingering over the sprinkling of hair that covered his chest and narrowed to a tantalizing line that trailed all the way to the fastening of his pants.

He caught her hands and held them tight. “Not yet. Your gown first.”

There was a hint of an order in his tone. But though he was issuing commands, she felt in control—almost powerful. It was a heady experience, to be wanted so much, to be desired by such a tantalizing man. She stood then, pulling her hands free. Facing him, she allowed her gown to fall from her hips to the floor where it pooled about her feet on the rug, white froth on a sea of red.

Brandon caught his breath harshly, his gaze traveling over her. Her chemise was made of the finest lawn. The white flimsy material hugged every curve she possessed, outlining her full breasts in mouth-watering detail, clinging to the slope of her stomach, draping her rounded hips.

He grasped the arms of the chair tightly to keep himself from yanking her to him. It was almost too much to be borne.

Her eyes gleamed softly, as if she delighted in tormenting him. She leaned forward and placed a hand on each of his knees and pushed them aside
so that she could stand between them, his powerful thighs against the outsides of her legs.

Her stomach was directly before him and he could see the outline of her navel and, by just dipping his chin the slightest bit, the faint tangle of hair at the juncture of her legs. Faint tremors wracked him. God, but she was beautiful. Beautiful and standing within arm's length.

He found her gaze on him. He loved the way her eyes shone; she knew she was teasing him mercilessly and she reveled in the power of it. She sank to her knees before him and gently pushed him back in the chair. He allowed her to direct him, though he kept his hands locked about the arms of the chair—he didn't trust himself to let go.

She leaned forward to place a kiss on his stomach. Then her tongue, wet and hot, flickered over his ribs. She traced a path over his stomach and up. He sucked in his breath, his eyes half closing as he watched her. She locked his gaze with hers as she gently kissed his nipple.

Brandon almost bolted from the chair. “Verena,” he whispered, his voice rough.

She nipped his skin, letting her teeth abrade his puckered nipple. He released the arms of the chair and sank his hands into her hair, scattering the pins and loosening the mass until it tumbled over her shoulders.

He ran his hands through her long tresses, the strands clinging to his fingers. “I've dreamed of this.”

“And I've dreamed of this.” She placed her lips over his nipple and sucked.

Lightning-quick stabs of pure pleasure bolted through him. “Verena!” he gasped, his hands closing over her shoulders. He held her roughly, his breath harsh, his manhood rigid against her stomach. Verena's own excitement rose to match his. She moved restlessly, pressing herself closer.

Brandon thought he would explode from desire. She was a wraith, a magical breath that brushed him with an exquisite combination of wantonness and pure desire. She wanted him and somehow, through that wanting, made his desire all the stronger.

Never had he been more taken with any woman. He couldn't stand another moment without feeling her naked beneath him. He stood, lifting her to her feet at the same time. “It's my turn,” he growled, undoing his breeches with more force than necessary, struggling briefly with the wet material. But he was determined and within seconds he was bare before her.

She watched as if fascinated, her hands touching here, lingering there. It was as if she couldn't help herself. Her fingertips stroked heat everywhere they touched and he had to bite back a groan.

“Your chemise,” he ordered. “Take it off.”

Verena's gaze softened, her amazing violet eyes shadowed by the length of her lashes. She removed her hands from his hips and ran them lightly over her own body, lingering on her breasts as if she knew Brandon's every thought. “Now?” she whispered, her lips glistening from his kisses.

He had to curl his hands into fists to keep from
grabbing her and ripping the chemise from her body.

She must have seen his desire, for she laughed softly, the sound running through Brandon like liquid fire. She had the most sensual laugh, husky and unrestrained.

Her fingers lingered at the chemise's ribbon. “Should I—”

Brandon untied the ribbon and pulled her chemise from her shoulders, the delicate material ripping as he did so, but he didn't care. He was too taken by the expanse of creamy white skin that was bared to his gaze.

The remnants of the chemise joined Verena's gown on the floor. Brandon placed his hands on her shoulders and stood back to look at her. She was beautiful when fully clothed, but naked, she was a goddess. Every inch of her was curved, from her calves to the gently rounded contours of her stomach, to her full breasts. And every curve proved that she was a woman. Lush. Inviting. And all his.

He wasn't sure afterwards how they made it to the bed. One moment they were standing, luxuriating in each other and the next, they were on the soft mattress, chest to chest, his thigh pressed between her legs, her moisture driving him mad.

He captured her mouth with his and tasted her, luxuriated in the feel of her. Like a trace of sugar, she was sweet on his tongue and left him wanting for more.

He placed his hand on her breast, her nipple between two fingers. She arched at the touch, her midriff lifting from the bed, her breast thrust fur
ther into his palm. He gently kneaded her flesh, admiring the perfection of her breast, the womanly curve of her stomach, the incredibly sensual line of her shoulders and throat. She was art, made by a master hand, touched with a beauty of soul he was only beginning to realize.

She moaned deep in her throat, her hands resting on his wrists as if to guide his wandering fingers to other, secret places.

“You're so warm,” she murmured, her hands feathering over his arms and back. “It's like there's a fire inside you.”

He had a fever, he knew. But he couldn't tell if it was from standing in the rain or from the sensations caused by her fingers as they brushed and stroked and tormented.

He could take no more. He moved his thigh to one side, pressing her knees apart.

She didn't resist, but lifted her knees and opened for him. She was thoroughly wanton, as shameless as any man could ever dream. He doubted she knew how much her bold actions fueled his desire, but they did. Fanned him to a flame he'd never found before.

“I want to taste you,” he murmured fiercely. “All of you.”

The words sent a pleasurable shiver through Verena. He was the most sensuous man she'd ever known—every touch elicited a response, every word drove her closer to madness.

He lifted his head, his eyes narrowed to slits. “Are you afraid?”

Was
she afraid? Her heart was certainly thundering against her ribs and she felt breathless, as if
she'd been running. But she wasn't afraid. She was excited, thrilled; her whole body burned with a passion she'd never before experienced. Dare she tell him such a thing?

He captured her face between his hands, the gesture both rough and yet oddly gentle, as if he were restraining himself with only the greatest effort. “Do you want me to continue? This is your last chance, Verena. Your last chance for salvation from whatever consumes us.”

She didn't want any more chances. She wanted him between her thighs, filling her up, pleasing her, reminding what it was to be a woman. But somehow she couldn't form the words.

Instead, she gripped his wrists as she planted her heels on the mattress. Then she lifted her hips to brush his, her hands sliding up his arms to his shoulders.

Every finely muscled inch fueled her desire all the more. She locked one arm about his neck and pulled his mouth to hers to kiss him boldly, recklessly, plunging her tongue in and out of his mouth.

He moaned into her mouth, his hands sliding over her waist, her hips, cupping her intimately. Verena reached between them and found his manhood. She stroked and slid her hands over his velvet hardness.

His breath hissed through his lips and he closed his eyes, his body rigid. His skin was damp, his breathing harsh against her ear. “Let go, sweet, or neither of us will get what we want.”

Verena reluctantly did as he asked. She loved
the feel of him, of the smoothness of his skin over his hard muscles. The contrast was fascinating.