Confessions of a Scoundrel (9 page)

She lifted her chin and met his gaze with a challenging one of her own. He smiled, his eyes softening slightly and just as before, she felt a strange sense of connection with him. As if he knew who she was and all of her sins, and he didn't give a damn about a one.

She forced her gaze back to the stack of guineas on the table before her, her palm itching. Brandon St. John was a very dangerous man.

“Lady Westforth,” Jameson slurred. “It's your deal.”

Verena took the cards, her fingers sliding over the smooth surfaces. She glanced at Brandon, but he was regarding his glass with a fixed gaze. Jameson and Cabot-Lewes were so sotted they could barely sit up. The time was now.

She shuffled the cards, deftly placing the queen on the bottom. Verena won the next three hands. As she pulled in her winnings, she met James's gaze across the room and gave him an infinitesimal smile. Things were indeed going well.

“Lady Westforth, you are not drinking.”

The dark voice feathered over her. Verena found Brandon's intense gaze on her. He had the most astonishing eyes, a blue so rich they appeared black in certain light. “You mistake, Mr. St. John. I've had more than my fair share.”

He lifted his own glass and she noticed that his hand appeared slightly unsteady. She was almost chortling at her good luck when it became Brandon's turn to deal. She watched him fumble a little
with the cards and she smiled encouragingly at him when he passed the first card her way.

His eyes narrowed and he gave her a raw look, hot and proprietory. One that sent a shiver down her back. She pulled away at the intensity of his expression. He must have realized he'd shown too much, for he immediately looked away, dealing the remaining cards.

Verena picked up her cards, more shaken than she wanted to admit. It wasn't that he'd looked at her in such a way; men tended to do that, especially after imbibing so much port. But her own reaction startled her. Her body had softened as if he'd touched her intimately, like a lover.

It was not a response Verena was used to having. Indeed, she could recall only one other time that she'd reacted that way to any man's look. And that had been with Andrew.

She looked at Brandon again. Surely not. Surely she didn't feel anything for Brandon St. John other than—

“It's your turn, Lady Westforth.” Brandon's gaze slid over her again, but this time with more control. His deep voice curled about her, brushing her bared shoulders. “Do you discard?”

Verena found that her hands were trembling just the faintest bit. That would not do at all. How could she change her cards if her hands shook as if she had the palsy? She quickly discarded, then placed her cards on the table.

Brandon's attention seemed to move on to Lord Jameson. Verena almost sighed in relief. To give her something to do with her hands, she picked up her glass of port and took a sip. Everyone's
glass was empty but hers. That would not do at all. She glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then reached down to pour it into the plant.

Strong fingers encircled her wrist, bearing her hand up. Up. Back to the table. Verena looked into Brandon's eyes.

He smiled, his teeth flashing in the dim light. “I do so hate to see good port go to waste.”

“What's that?” Cabot-Lewes asked, straining to look over the table without getting up from his seat. His double chin quivered. “Did Lady Westforth spill her drink?”

“Not yet,” Brand said. He leaned forward so that no one could hear him. “I believe the port is not to your liking. Shall I order you some lemonade instead?”

Verena pressed her lips together. “I don't know what you're talking about. I was merely looking at the plant, enjoying how very…green it is.” She looked meaningfully at her wrist. “You can release me now.”

“Take a drink.”

“No.”

“Verena.” He leaned even closer. To anyone watching, it was a lover's intimate moment, his hand about her wrist, his lips near her ear. “Drink it or admit you were tossing it out.”

It was a threat. Verena didn't like threats. But even worse, she didn't like men who tried to force her into saying things she didn't want to say. “Release my wrist.”

He lifted his brows.

“I cannot drink with your hand about my wrist.”

He released her hand, a challenge in his hard stare.

Something deep inside Verena quivered at his challenge. This man had insulted her, trifled with her, and now, on top of everything else, seemed determined to hold her out for mockery. Well! She would show him. Every drop of Lansdowne blood that flowed through her veins began to simmer in earnest.

Verena locked her gaze with Brandon's, lifted her glass, and drank the port. Not just a sip, either. She drank the entire glass, one burning gulp at a time. The port seared its way down and made her eyes water, but she finished the last dregs. Then she set her glass on the table with a thump.

He swore softly. “You little fool. You'd do anything other than admit the truth, wouldn't you?”

Lord Jameson chortled. “Here, here, Lady W! That's the way to show him!”

Verena blinked back the water that stung her eyes. Her whole body felt as if it was afire. “Whose turn is it?”

Brandon leaned back in his chair, a faint sense of disapproval clinging about him as Jameson continued the game.

Verena didn't care what Brandon St. John thought. She was a full-grown woman and if she wanted to drink port, then she would. Any time of the day. In fact, she just might have another glass. Or two. Maybe three.

She caught the eye of a passing servant and pointed to her glass. It was immediately filled, as were those of everyone else at the table. Verena quickly emptied that glass, as well. Why not?
She'd already won a fair amount. If she was careful, she'd still rise a winner. And that was enough. For now.

Verena allowed a servant to refill her glass yet again.

Brand's disapproval grew until it seemed to Verena that it hung over them like a cloud.

She refused to acknowledge him, but spared no pains to flirt with Lord Jameson and Mr. Cabot-Lewes. She took a deep sip of the port, finding that it wasn't nearly so bad this time. The more one had, the better it tasted. Perhaps that was the trick.

They played another round of cards and to Verena's surprise, not only was her glass empty once again, but she won. She was considering asking for more port when Brandon's voice sounded in her ear.

“Don't even think it, damn you. If you get any more,
I
will be the one tossing it into the plant.”

She sniffed. “You are not my father.”

“No,” he said grimly, his gaze raking over her in a way that made her shiver.

“You aren't my brother, either.”

“No, I'm not,” he agreed quickly enough.

“Then you can't make suggestions about the way I live.”

“I'm not making a suggestion. I'm making a statement. You've had too much to drink and I'm not going to allow you to have any more.”

“Allow? Who do you think you are?” She glared at him challengingly. Strangely, his face seemed to waver in front of her. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Moving. It's making me ill.”

He dropped his cards onto the table. “That's it. We're leaving.”

“We're not going anywhere. I came to play and I'm going to play.”

He stared at her a long moment, his face as black as a thundercloud. Finally, he picked up the deck of cards. “Then we'll play. But a new game.”

“I say, what's going on?” Jameson asked blurrily.

Brandon shot him an indifferent look. “Lady Westforth and I have an argument to settle. We're going to cut the cards in answer.”

Cabot-Lewes waved a hand. “Carry on. I think I'm done for, anyway. Do we know who won?”

“I hope I did,” Verena said, wondering why she'd eschewed port for so long. It was marvelous stuff. She lifted her glass, disappointed to find it empty but for two or three drops. “How sad.” She looked at Brandon, who sat so sternly at her side. For some reason, the sight of him warmed her and she smiled. “If I win the cut, do I get more port?”

“An entire bottle.”

She sighed happily. “That seems fair.”

He shuffled the cards and then placed them in front of her.

Verena looked at the cards and wet her lips. She was going to go home a winner tonight. She could feel the positive hum of luck pouring through her veins. She reached for a card, then stopped, meeting St. John's gaze. “Wait. If you win the draw, what do you get?”

His gaze flickered over her, resting on the curve of her décolletage, her bared shoulders, her bot
tom lip. “If I win,” he said, “then I earn the right to see you home.”

She eyed him suspiciously. There was something wrong with this plan, she knew it. But for some reason, she couldn't fathom what it was. “Anything else?”

His gaze flickered over her. “What else could there be?”

“Well, I get a whole bottle of port if I win, but you only get to ride home with me. That doesn't seem even.”

“By Jove,” Jameson said. “She's right! You should get more than that if she's to win an entire bottle of port.”

“How about a kiss?” Mr. Cabot-Lewes said. He beamed, his round face damp with perspiration. “I won a kiss at cards once. Best kiss I ever had.”

“Seems fair to me,” Jameson said. “Well, Lady W? What do you say?”

Verena put her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. “I don't think I can. Mr. Lansdowne brought me. It would be rude to leave with someone else. And it would be really rude to kiss someone else,
not
that I want to kiss Mr. Lansdowne.”

Brandon's mouth curved into a smile. “You don't?”

“Not at all. He's not my cup of tea,” she confided easily.

Jameson chuckled. “The poor man!”

Cabot-Lewes nodded sadly. “And he sent us that lovely port, too. Shouldn't kick a man who made such a dashing gesture.”

“I don't think he'll care,” Brand said coolly. “He's busy at the faro table.”

Everyone turned to look. Verena blinked blurrily across the room. She could just make out the back of James's head where he sat near Lady Farley. “I hope he had better luck than I've had this evening.” She leaned toward Brandon and said in a conspiratorial voice, “I usually win, you know. Only very carefully.”

Brandon thought he'd never seen a more adorably drunk woman in his life. Especially not after only three glasses. “You don't drink often, do you?”

“Never. Inhibits your judgment, you know.”

“Inhibits? You don't appear inhibited at the moment. Perhaps you meant to say that it
impairs
your judgment.”

“Meant what I said. Said what I meant.” She pointed a finger at him. “Do you know what my father believes?”

“What?”

“A good card player doesn't drink.”

“And are you a good card player? Or a crooked one?”

“I don't like your tone.” She tried to look offended but failed miserably.

He placed his elbows on the table and leaned closer. “Choose your card, Verena.”

She looked at the deck and wet her lips nervously. Brandon watched her tongue trace a line over her lips and his body tightened. Bloody hell, but she was a luscious bundle.

Finally, she reached out and flipped over a card.
A jack of clubs beamed up. “Ha!” she said triumphantly. “Beat that!”

“Bloody good one, Lady W,” Jameson said, nodding sagely, his cravat askew.

Mr. Cabot-Lewes nodded enthusiastically. “Hard to beat that with one card.”

Brandon turned over his card. A king of hearts beamed up at them.

Verena blinked.

“The St. John luck,” Jameson crowed. “Warned you about that.”

Brand stood and placed a hand on Verena's elbow. He wanted to get her out of here before Lansdowne realized she was gone. “Come, Lady Westforth. I will see you home.”

She looked up at him. “Now?”

“This instant.”

She sighed, then clambered to her feet, swaying a little.

Jameson and Cabot-Lewes stood as well and made effusive farewells. Brand didn't give Verena time to respond. He said their good-byes and bundled her out of the gaming hell and into his carriage before she knew what had happened.

T
he carriage rumbled down the streets of London, the lights flickering through the windows to trace fleeting patterns. Verena settled back against the squabs, trying to ignore the fact that Brandon sat directly across from her, his knee hard against hers.

What was it about him that made her feel so nervous, as if she stood on a narrow ledge and one misstep could lead to something indecently dangerous? She clasped her damp hands together, aware that her heart thundered in her ears.

She would just look out the window and pretend she wasn't aware of him, though it was difficult. He was so large, leaning in the corner of the coach with his hands in his pockets, his eyes fixed on her.

Verena supposed she should be thankful that he wasn't taking advantage of their solitude by
making improper advances. Although, to be honest, she'd welcome an improper advance or two. Especially now, the night air crisp on her bared shoulders, the motion of the carriage increasing her port-induced dizziness until she felt as if she were drifting on a cloud, free and as light as air.

There were other feelings, too. Feelings she hadn't experienced in a long, long time. Feelings of restlessness. Of wanting.

She leaned back and closed her eyes, trying to shut out the man who sat across from her. But it did no good. She could see him through her eyelids. In fact, had she pen and paper, she could have drawn him, every last line—the way his eyes crinkled when he finally smiled, the way his mouth could tighten when he didn't like something, the broad width of his shoulders, the powerful lines of his thighs…hmmm.

His thighs.
She smiled to herself. How she'd like to see those thighs right now. Undressed. Right at mouth level where she could—

“You should never drink.” His voice dripped amusement. “I can't believe you only had three glasses of port. My mother could drink more than that.”

“Your mother was an alcoholic?” She opened her eyes and squinted in the semi-darkness. “I suppose that's only to be expected. If I had six children, I'd be fond of the bottle, too.”

“She was not an alcoholic.” He chuckled. “But you're right. Six children would be a good reason to become one. She had her hands full.” He eyed her for a moment. “Verena. That's a very unusual name. Where did it come from?”

Verena should have objected to his use of her Christian name, but she rather liked the way it rolled off his tongue. It sounded almost French the way he said it. And everyone knew that French was the language of love.

“Well,” he said, moving impatiently, his knees seeming to press further into her side of the carriage, invading her space, bringing even more disquiet. “Are you going to tell me about your name or am I to guess?”

“Guess.”

His mouth curved in a smile. She really, really liked his mouth. She thought perhaps it was her favorite part, except for his thighs, of course.

“Let's see…Verena.” The light from the street caressed a path down his jaw to his chin. “It was your grandmother's name and when she died, she left you a fortune.”

That
was
a lovely story. Verena immediately dreamed up a kindly old grandmother worth more than the crown prince. “That would certainly be fortunate for me, but it's wrong. It's the name of a small town. My parents believe I was conceived there, on the banks of the river.”

“How risqué. My parents were just as bad. I remember once finding them entwined in the pantry.” He shifted in his seat, scooting down a bit. His legs were suddenly no longer pressing against her knees, but stretched to either side, cocooning her in warmth.

Verena wanted to move away, but there was nowhere to go. She was imprisoned between a pair of long, muscular legs. How…delightful.

The carriage rounded a corner, and somehow, Brandon used the motion to shift yet again and now his knee was almost against her seat, his thigh pressed firmly to hers. Verena sucked in her breath, a shiver traveling across her shoulders, down her chest. It tightened her nipples and sent a tremor of hot lust through her. Blast it, had she known that port was such an insidious drink, she'd never have touched a drop.

“Tell me about your husband. He was a sporting man, was he not?”

She blinked, trying to reel in her muddled senses. “Andrew? He liked all sports, especially those he could wager on.” She scooted a little to one side, away from Brandon's dangerous legs. For they were dangerous—they made her think all sorts of improper thoughts. Like what he'd look like naked. She glanced at him from beneath her lashes. His clothes fit to perfection and she could tell that he was made with a sculptor's hand.

God was to be commended on producing such a fine specimen. In fact, just to honor the realization, Verena decided to say an extra ten Hail Marys that very night.

Feeling very pious, she smoothed her skirts over her knees, relishing the feel of the silk. She felt amazingly alive, aware of every little nuance, of the flickering light, of her gown beneath her fingertips, of the sounds of the horses as they clopped through the streets. The night was wonderfully magical.

“Did your husband want children?”

She frowned at Brandon and wished the light
were more definite. She could barely make out his face, though his eyes seemed to burn through her. “No, he didn't. Not yet anyway.”

Brandon thought he could see the faintest hint of sadness in her eyes. He shifted again, bringing his leg more fully in contact with hers. She looked down, but made no move to retreat.

It was a pity he had such a large carriage. He made a mental note to order a smaller one on the morrow. “I understand Westforth died in a carriage accident shortly after your marriage. Did the horses bolt?”

“No, Andrew did.” She managed a small smile. “He was racing and he took a corner too sharp. He broke his neck.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. It was swift and painless. And he died the same way he'd lived—free. As sad as I was, I think I knew even back then that it was meant to be.”

There was a catch in her voice that made Brandon frown. “You still miss him.”

She looked out the window, the dark leather that lined the walls of the carriage a perfect background for her beauty.

Beauty. It was strange, but he now thought her every bit as beautiful as Devon had described. It was more than her face or body, though those features were noteworthy in their own right. It was something more. Her spirit perhaps.

Brandon sighed impatiently. He was being ridiculous. He should be asking about Humford instead of feeding this strange curiosity he had
about her—who she was and where she'd come from and all manner of things.

She chuckled suddenly, leaning back against the squabs, her teeth flashing as she smiled. “Do you know what I don't miss about being married?”

“What?”

“His snoring.”

Brand grinned, wondering what she'd do if he grabbed her to him and kissed her. She needed to be kissed, he could tell. And if he was honest, he yearned to wrap his arms about her and taste her yet again, to see if his memory of their one embrace was anything near the truth, or a sad exaggeration resulting from his overactive imagination.

She pulled back, nose in the air. “You're laughing at me.”

He captured her hand. “I did not laugh.”

“No, but you smiled and that's close enough. How much farther is it? I want to go home.”

“That's where we're going.”

“It is certainly taking long enough.” She eyed him suspiciously, though she made no move to free her hand from his. “Are you certain you're taking me to my house and not yours?”

“I don't have a house. I rent lodgings off St. James's Street.”

“What? A St. John without a house? I thought there was a law against that. Something about ‘all pompous asses shall possess their own abodes.'”

He grinned. “You know, I believe my mother would have liked you.”

“I doubt it. I rarely get on well with other females. I don't know why that is.”

He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, marveling at the smoothness of her skin. “Perhaps it is because you're too forthright.”

“Forthright? You mean ‘honest'?”

Brandon didn't reply. He wasn't sure what he meant. All he knew was that the woman who sat so tantalizingly near wasn't sitting anywhere close enough. He wanted her beside him. On him. Under him. A growing heat filtered through him.

She sighed. “You aren't going to answer and I know why. You don't think I'm honest
or
honorable or you'd have never offered to pay me to leave your brother alone. In fact, you think I'm a horrible person.”

“I do not,” he said slowly. “I am beginning to realize that I was wrong about some things, but I had good reason to think them true.”

“‘Think' and ‘some.' What a delightful way to make a decision.”

“I admit I was somewhat hasty in my judgment.”

“‘Somewhat hasty,'” she scoffed. “There's nothing like a partial retraction of a gross error. It's rather like being
almost
with child.”

Brandon opened her hand, admiring the shape of her fingers where they were splayed across his. Long and delicate, her hands were the hands of a musician, of an artist, of a skilled lover, perhaps. The thought tantalized and Brandon lifted her hand to his mouth.

He gently ran his lips over the length of her fingers, stopping to taste the crest of each
knuckle. A slow, shivery heat built, tormenting and teasing.

She watched, wide eyed, her mouth parted. “You—you shouldn't do that.”

He kissed her first finger. “Why not?”

“B-because it—” She swallowed.

He ran his lips the length of her second finger. She shivered then, closing her eyes, an expression of yearning on her face.

She was so transparent, her every emotion flickering across her face. Brandon could not look away. He pressed a kiss to the sensitive place where her third finger joined her palm, his tongue flicking out to tease the delicate fold.

She jerked forward, her knees pressed together, her breathing erratic. The gesture was so primal, so pure. Brandon's control stretched to the breaking point. He pressed her fingers to his lips and closed his eyes. He dared not claim the promised kiss—he would not have the strength to stop the embrace from becoming something more.

“St. John…” Verena swallowed, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. Her entire body was aflame. She wanted him—now. “I will give you the kiss I owe you.”

His eyes narrowed, an almost slumberous seductiveness to his voice. “You've had too much to drink.”

She barely kept her smile, the pressure within her was so great. “No, I haven't. But I'm going to wish I had if you do not kiss me.”

His lips quirked, his eyes gleaming hotly. “If you were to come over here…to my side of the carriage…”

Her breasts ached for his touch. “Yes?” she whispered breathlessly.

“And if you were to settle yourself in my lap and wrap your arms about my neck…”

“Yes?” Any moment now she would burst into flames and melt into a puddle of thwarted desire. “What would you give me?”

“I would give you an
extra
kiss, one you would never forget.” His voice threaded through the night, luring her forward. “I'm saving the kiss I owe you for a time of
my
choosing.”

It was wanton. Verena knew it. Yet she found herself sliding forward, to the edge of her seat. His legs were to either side of hers and it was remarkably easy to lift herself into his lap.

He engulfed her, pulling her to his chest, his mouth descending on hers. It was as it had been before—more than a kiss, it was a devouring, a branding. His mouth covered hers, his hands molded her back through her dress. She moaned beneath the onslaught, opening to him, wrapping her arms about his neck.

Waves of desire burst through her, shattering her thoughts. All she knew was what she felt—his tongue thrusting into her mouth, making her writhe against him, his hands warm and demanding, cupping her breasts. Her nipples hardened and she arched into his touch, her entire body melting against him.

The carriage rumbled to a halt and with it, Verena's senses returned. She pushed herself from him, forced her weak knees to move her back to her seat. Once there, all she could do was lay against the squabs and fight for her breath.

They sat for a moment in the stillness, looking at one another, both breathing as harshly as if they'd been running. It was an agony. Verena yearned to be back in his embrace, to feel his hands on her once more, to taste him deeply.

She pressed a hand to her forehead. “I—I didn't mean for us to—”

“I know. Verena, I—”

The door opened and the footman pulled down the steps.

Brand sighed, raking a hand through his hair. He met her gaze with a wry smile. “Come. I promised to see you home and so I shall.” He stepped out, then turned and held out his hand.

She nodded mutely and allowed him to assist her from the carriage. Light from the portico shone around them in a golden pool. Brandon tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and walked her up the steps to the door. Verena put her hand to the knob, then stopped.

“What is it?”

She frowned at the knob and tried to turn it again. “It's locked.”

“Do you have a key?”

“Of course not. Herberts is supposed to wait up for me.”

Brandon raised his brows. “And you really believed he would?”

She didn't answer. Brandon grinned, then reached past her to swing the brass knocker.

There was a long silence, both of them aware of the gaze of the footmen.

Brandon leaned forward, his voice heavy and low. “You, madam, owe me a kiss.”

“I gave you one in the carriage.”

“No. That was an
extra
kiss. And you know it.”