Confessions of a Scoundrel (4 page)

“Yes.”

“I hope he's well.”

“He left London several days ago and has not yet returned. But then, you know that.”

“I don't know any such thing; I'm not his keeper.” She hesitated, then added after a moment's thought, “And neither are you.”

Brandon's gaze narrowed. Surely the woman was not censuring him? But one look into her violet eyes and he realized she was doing just that. His irritation flamed into anger. He regarded her icily. “The relationships I share with my family are none of your concern.”

She should have been thoroughly put in her place, but instead her gaze narrowed. “Just as the relationships
I
share with your family are no concern of
yours.
”

His jaw tightened. “I beg to differ. Everything to do with my brother is very much my business.”

“Mr. St. John. Let us come to the point, shall we? I have a horrid temper and I'd hate to box the ears of such an exalted personage.”

He raised his brows. “Exalted personage?”

“A St. John. Society has deemed your family to be above the rest of us.” A faint air of scorn rested about her, delicate yet lethal. “I would hate to disagree with society.”

“Would you?” A smile tugged at his mouth. “I get the impression otherwise.”

“You are very perceptive. I care naught for titles nor the prestige of birth.”

“Only money,” Brandon said succinctly.

Her chin lifted. “I enjoy money. Who doesn't? Life would be dreadfully dull without it. But I do not make it my main purpose. Nor does it affect my friendship with your brother.”

“What
is
your main purpose, Lady Westforth? Marriage?”

“Don't be ridiculous. I have no intentions of ever marrying again.”

He could almost believe her. Almost. “Never is a strong word.”

“I've been married before. And while I have no complaints, I find the freedom I have now much more to my liking.” She leaned forward, her dress pulling across her full breasts, her gaze direct and challenging. “But thank you for inquiring. Now, was there something else? Or did you just come to raise my hackles?”

Brandon found that his anger had heated into something more insidious. She was an interesting bundle of pride, sparkle, and self-possession. Added to that, she had a sharp wit and a lush figure. Rounded and plump, she would keep a man warm in bed for hours.

He shifted in his chair and realized that far from being offended, he wanted to taunt her all the more. It was fascinating the way her eyes sparked with heat when she was angered.

Damn it
, he admonished himself,
make the offer and be done.
“Lady Westforth, let me be plain. Whatever your designs for my brother Chase, they are at an end. I've come to make you an offer—my brother's freedom in exchange for a certain amount of funds. Avery, very generous amount of funds, if I say so myself.”

She stood so quickly that he didn't have time to pull back, her legs brushing against his knees. “It is time you left.”

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I suggest you resume your seat and listen to what I have to say.”

Her hands fisted at her sides. “You've said enough as it is. I will ring for Herberts. He will see you to the door.”

Brandon's irritation faded as hers grew. She was no fool. She knew what he thought of her and she was ready to retaliate without hesitation. “I'll leave as soon as we've come to an understanding. How much will it take to get you to leave my brother alone?”

“Of all the—” She clamped her lips over the words. “You are attempting to purchase my cooperation.”

“Yes. And I am willing to offer a considerable sum.”

“Offer all you want; I won't take your money.”

“No?” He did smile then…of course she wouldn't take the money. And tomorrow, the sun wouldn't rise. He pulled the bank draft from his pocket then reached out and captured her hand where she held it fisted against her thigh. He pried her fingers loose, noting that her skin was warm and soft, and placed the draft in her hand. “Here. Take this. It should make it worth your while.” He pressed her fingers closed and looked up into her eyes. “
Very
worth your while.”

He knew what she was going to do…she'd protest, of course. They all did, or pretended to. But soon enough they'd capitulate and take the money. All too soon, he'd be on his way, secure that Chase was once again out of harm's way.

For some reason, the thought bothered him.
There'd been a moment when he'd been certain she was different from all the others. Just a moment. But now…he noted how her fingers gripped the bank draft. He met her gaze with a superior smirk. “Afraid you'll lose it?”

Her gaze narrowed, became scathing. She jerked her gaze from his and glanced down at the draft crumpled between her fingers. “You have erred, Mr. St. John. Money does not make anything worth my while.”

Then she did the most astonishing thing. She lifted the bank draft and held it in front of his face and ripped it into tiny pieces.

“I don't need your money, nor do I need you.” To his startled chagrin, she held her hand over his head and showered him with tiny pieces of paper.

I
t had been many minutes since Verena had thought that Brandon St. John quite possibly the handsomest man she'd ever seen. He was tall, powerfully built, with blue eyes that contrasted devastatingly with his black hair.

Fortunately for her, that first positive impression had been far overshadowed by her realization that he was also, in addition to being incredibly handsome, a pompous jackass badly in need of a set down.

And she was just the woman to deliver it. She smiled as she watched him dust bits of paper from his shoulder. Several stubborn pieces remained lodged in his hair, giving him a much deserved horned appearance. Verena decided she couldn't be bothered to point that out. Let him go about in public with tattered bits of paper in his hair. It was
just a pity she wouldn't be there when people pointed and laughed.

“What are you looking at?” he snapped, his brow lowered.

“Oh, nothing. Mr. St. John, thank you for visiting. I'll ring for Herberts to bring your coat. I daresay he's wearing it even now.” She watched with satisfaction as Brandon St. John's expression went from irritation to blazing anger.

She turned toward the bell pull when St. John, still in his chair, caught her by the wrist. She glanced down at him, too amused to be vexed. “Yes?”

St. John's mouth thinned, his eyes burning even more brightly. “I am well aware of the usual machinations of your type of woman.”

“Type? Just what
is
my type of woman?”

His gaze raked her up and down, insolently lingering on her breasts. It was almost as if he could see through her clothing. A faint tingle of heat sliced to her stomach, surprising her.

Finally, his gaze traveled back to her face. “Shall I speak plainly?”

“I'm not sure I can take much more plain speaking. Not without retaliating in some fashion. If you proceed much further, you might want to gather a pillow from the settee for protection.”

His lips twitched, surprise softening his blue gaze for a moment. “I don't wish to insult you, but we both know what has occurred.”

Her tongue curled around a hot rejoinder and it took every bit of the masterful control she'd learned over the last four years to keep from uttering the comment aloud. “Yes, you offered me
money to stay away from your brother. I have never been more insulted.”

His hold loosened the tiniest fraction and she became aware of the warmth of his hand against her skin, of the way his long fingers completely encircled her wrist.

“What will it take to get you to leave my brother be? Two thousand pounds?”

Verena wished he'd release her so she'd at least have the satisfaction of slapping him soundly.

His gaze narrowed. “Three thousand pounds.”

Three. Thousand. Pounds. She didn't know what amount James would need, but three thousand pounds would certainly be useful. Verena wet her lips. It would be nice to have the money for her brother. Wonderful, in fact. Especially since she wouldn't have to actually do anything to earn it.

The truth was that she'd sent Chase St. John on his way two entire days ago. What would Brandon St. John do if she told him the truth—that she'd already refused his brother's offer of marriage?

She'd hated refusing Chase, for she could see that although he was sadly tipsy at the time, he'd meant every word. In reality, he'd taken it in good part and she thought that perhaps his feelings were not as deeply engaged as he thought.

Verena looked at Brandon from beneath her lashes and hid a smile. Apparently Chase had not confided in his brothers about what had occurred. They obviously thought he was still under her influence.

She smiled sweetly at her captor. “Please release my hand. You have a very heavy grasp.”

His grip loosened a bit more, though not enough for her to win her freedom.

Her smile slipped. “You are being rude.”

“I don't want you to toss anything else over my head. The next item might hurt.”

If Verena had any say in the matter, it would hurt a lot. “You're bruising my wrist.”

She was finally released, though she could tell he did not believe her for a moment. She tried to match St. John's mocking smile with one of her own, though the way her cheeks pulled, she feared it was more a baring of the teeth than a smile. “Tell me, Mr. St. John; do you believe in witchery? You make it sound as if I held your brother under a spell of some sort.”

“You used your physical attractions to gain my brother's interest. We will not stand for it.”

“We?”

“My brothers and I.”

Good God, the entire family thought she was some sort of marry-by-morning type of woman, desperately searching for a wealthy husband. It would be a remarkably irritating idea if it were not so humorous.

And poor Chase! She'd had no idea the extent of his suffering, but now she wondered if perhaps his brothers weren't suffocating him. Had she any sense, she would tell Brandon St. John the truth and send him on his way, her foot firmly planted on his muscular rump.

Unfortunately, he had engaged her sense of the ridiculous with his pompous attitude. It was so much more amusing to taunt the man than just to blurt the colorless truth. She returned to her chair
and folded her hands in her lap in a demure fashion. “Mr. St. John, I must confess to something.”

He didn't look in the least impressed. In fact, he appeared to be a little annoyed. “What's that?”

“I am very fond of your brother.” She looked at Brandon through her lashes. “Very,
very
fond.”

His jaw tightened, his glance ice blue and as cold as the Thames in the dead of winter. “I do not take it lightly when someone tries to take advantage of a member of my family.”

“Advantage? How do you know
he
hasn't been trying to take advantage of
me
?”

“Chase is not the type of man to take advantage of anyone. Besides,” Brandon's gaze flickered over her with dismissive intent, “how could anyone take advantage of a woman like you?”

Verena's humor fizzled into a flash of fire. She never lost her temper, never uttered a less-than-ladylike word, and never, ever spat. But at this moment, she found that she had to fight the urge to do all three.

What Brandon St. John really needed was a good firm slap across the face followed by a sound foot stomping. And perhaps, for good measure, she might throw in a quick punch to the ribs, too.

Just one, of course. She wasn't a mean woman. Not yet, anyway.

Still, his arrogance cried out for retaliation of some sort. And in teaching Brandon St. John a lesson, Verena would be doing a favor to all of womanhood.

Heavens! If she considered it much longer, she'd feel positively noble. Perhaps she
should
take his money. Oh, not to spend—she had her
own means of raising funds—but just to prove to him that she was not to be toyed with. She'd take his bank draft, yank it right from his fingers, and then wait for him to find out from Chase that he'd been duped. It was a delightful notion. And when the high and lordly Brand St. John came crawling back to retrieve his funds, she'd have him right where she wanted him. Her humor returned and she grinned.

Brandon did not seem to enjoy her display of humor. His scowl grew in matched proportion. “Lady Westforth, you will tell my brother you are not interested in him. That you wish him to leave you be. And in return, I shall pay you a goodly amount. It's a simple arrangement, one made every day.”

“Oh, I'm afraid I can't do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm insulted.”

His brows rose. “And?”

She leaned forward and said in a gentle tone, “When I feel insulted, it makes me somewhat cantankerous. And thus it is impossible for me to agree to anything. You
do
want me to agree to take your offer, don't you?”

He managed a brief nod, though it was apparent his temper was wearing thin.

She smiled beatifically. “Excellent! It might benefit us both if you would explain your meaning when you said ‘a woman like you.' Perhaps I'm being a bit severe in my interpretation.”

He leaned back in his chair, watching her through half-closed eyes. “A glutton for punishment, aren't you?”

“I want to know where I stand.”

“Very well. You asked. How old are you?”

“How old—I don't see that that is any of your business.”

“Then let me guess.” He pursed his lips. “I'll say…thirty-t—”

“Twenty-six,” she snapped. Really, there was no reason for the man to be so…
personal
.

He grinned—a real grin this time, one that crinkled his eyes and drew a faint dimple at one side of his mouth in the most attractive way. In the space of a second, he went from stern and un-yielding to something far more palatable.

Despite her irritation, Verena caught herself wanting to respond to that smile. Her own lips quivered and a quiet laugh bubbled deep inside, though she tried to repress it. “I hope you're satisfied now, though I don't know what you expect to prove.”

“Merely that you are older than Chase by almost two years.”

“What's two years? I daresay there are dozens of successful couples who've got more years than that between them.”

“You are also far more experienced than he.”

She gave an inelegant snort, then caught herself. That's what came of being with her brother for hours on end the past two days—she'd forgotten all of her manners. She pressed her fingers to her lips and coughed politely. “Ah, I mean, that's not true.”

He raised his brows, his blue eyes truly alight with laughter. “Lady Westforth, you are a woman of contradictions.”

“Is that another of your objections?”

“No,” he said slowly, as if the information surprised him, as well. “It was merely an observation.”

Verena didn't like the rather intimate way he was now regarding her. “We aren't through cataloguing your objections to my person.”

“I thought I'd said enough.”

“One would think. But then I'm not your average dainty miss, who wants to hear nothing but soft words and false compliments. I'd rather know up front what problems are ahead so that I may deal with them.”

“You are stubborn.”

“I prefer the term ‘forthright.'”

His lips twitched, but he didn't smile. “Then I shall continue. In addition to your age, there is also the matter of your reputation.”

“Reputations can be misleading. For example,
you
are reputed to be a man of fashion and sophistication. A gentleman, so to speak. Yet here you are, as rude and boorish as a country squire.”

Brand almost winced at that. He supposed he was being rude, though he was at a loss as to how he could accomplish his goal without offering insult of some sort. Of course, had this been an un-educated orange seller from Vauxhall Gardens, she wouldn't have realized she was being insulted.

Marcus had been right; Lady Westforth was different from Chase's usual inamoratas. She was far more intelligent and she possessed a devastating sense of humor. Brandon noted the exotic tilt of Lady Westforth's eyebrows and the way they
lifted when she smiled. She was a lovely woman. What was really strange, though, was that the longer he remained with her, the more he became aware of that fact.

“Come, Lady Westforth. Enough of this. What will it take for you to leave my brother alone?”

She smiled, shaking her head. “I can't help but think you are overstepping your brotherly boundaries. What will Chase say about all this?”

“He'll be furious. He always is.”

“Always? You've done this before?”

“The St. Johns take care of their own. I've already told you that.”

“Yes, but—” She stopped, then waved a hand. “I daresay he will let you know his feelings on the subject when he returns.”

Her cheeks were faintly flushed, her eyes sparkling as if she were trying not to burst out laughing. Brand found himself wondering what she looked like in the throes of passion. If her eyes shone the same way, if her skin would flush when she became aroused. He'd bet his last pence that her hair was a sensual experience by itself, as long and thick as it appeared.

She was well rounded, her breasts large enough to fill his hands, her hips nicely curved. He pictured her lying naked in bed, her hair unbound and falling over her bare shoulders.

The image heated him quickly and he had to rein in his untoward imagination. Intelligence, beauty, and wit. It was a heady combination. Bloody hell, poor Chase never had a chance. Not with a woman like this. Had someone told Bran
don twenty minutes ago that the notorious Lady Westforth would be tossing insults at his head and that instead of being furious, he actually felt like laughing, he'd think they were crazed. But he found that he rather liked the fact that the cat had claws.

Of course, there was no surprise in that; except for Chase, the St. Johns were never drawn to milquetoast females. They needed fire to match their fire. And unless he was greatly mistaken, Lady Westforth had more than her fair share of sparks.

He leaned forward, suddenly anxious to get this over with. “I will raise my offer to five thousand pounds. And that is all I can offer.”

All traces of humor fled from her face. “Surely you jest.”

“I will send a draft within the hour.”

Her gaze dropped to the pieces of bank draft that littered the floor. He could tell from the stiffness of her shoulders that she was at war with her decision. He supposed he understood—it must be galling to have your hand called in such a brutal fashion. But she obviously needed the money. Her expression hardened his heart once again. She was indeed the type of woman to be avoided at all costs. “Take the draft,” he said softly.

At first, he thought she'd refuse. Instead, she reached over and touched his hair. Brandon could feel the heat from the palm of her hand brushing his ear. He closed his eyes, fighting a flash of lust.