Ripe for Scandal (32 page)

Gareth grabbed a handful of Beau’s hair and attempted to dislodge her. Her free hand shoved hard against his
chest, the heel pushing up against his diaphragm, holding him in place.

“Beau—” His breath hissed out of him as his balls tightened and drew up, his release only moments away.

She sucked harder, squeezed harder. Her tongue swirled over the ultrasensitive rim, and Gareth spilled himself into her mouth.

Beau sucked lightly, and he shuddered in response. She released him slowly, trailing her tongue the length of his shaft, her
hand still cradling the base. She smiled up at him, tongue darting out to lick the corner of her mouth. Gareth pulled his
handkerchief from his pocket and held it out.

“You’re indecently good at that for a newly married woman.”

Beau shrugged and lifted her arms to re-pin her hair. “I always was a quick study when something was important.”

She was still smiling like a naughty child when a horrible snapping noise broke the silence and the entire coach shivered
around them. Gareth grabbed hold of her as the world tilted and lurched, landing them both in a haphazard pile of knees and
elbows inside a suddenly dark coach.

The shouts and curses from the men outside were muffled by the wood. The coach shivered again as it was dragged forward, roughly.
Gareth kept ahold of Beau and waited. A pounding knock reverberated through the coach.

“Sandison? Beau?” Vaughn’s shout was easy to distinguish from the general din.

“Fine,” Gareth shouted back. “Wheels off?”

“Smashed to flinders.”

“Damnation,” Beau grumbled, catching him in the ribs with her elbow as she attempted to climb up off him.

Gareth bit back an oath of his own and yanked her back down. “Stop squirming about, brat. Door’s underneath us. Nothing we
can do until they right the coach.”

Vaughn said something to the same effect, followed by a shout to mind the horses. Gareth strained to catch the rest of what
was happening but gave up when it became evident that it was impossible to eavesdrop from their current position.

Beau gave a gusty, annoyed sigh and dropped her head back onto his shoulder. “Leo should go on. We’ll lose Granby if he doesn’t.”

“I wouldn’t waste your breath suggesting it. Your brother’s not going to just leave you here, trapped. I imagine once they’ve
settled the horses, he’ll ride on for help and try to pick up Granby’s trail.”

A disgusted snort was her only reply. Gareth pushed them both up a bit, and Beau yanked at her skirts and shifted about. “What
are you doing?”

“Trying to get the pad that holds out my skirts to stop bowing out my back in the most uncomfortable manner possible. It’s
not meant to be laid upon.”

After a few more minutes of struggling, she gave a growl of pure frustration and demanded that he help her. Gareth obligingly
pushed her up, hands steadying her as she attempted to find footing in the dark amongst the jumble of dislodged cushions,
hats, and traveling gear.

The rustle of fabric and the sound of her breath filled the coach. The hem of her skirts flicked across his cheek
as she yanked them up. “Ha!” Her exuberance echoed inside the coach and something fell heavily beside him.

“What now?” Gareth said, hands sliding up her legs.

Beau made a tsking sound, like she was rebuking a horse. Gareth grabbed hold of her skirts and pushed himself up so he was
kneeling. She pushed at him blindly, attempting to fend him off.

Gareth chuckled into the dark. “You have a better idea of how to pass the time?” he whispered, head already under her skirts.

“They’ll hear us,” she hissed back.

“Not if you’re quiet,” he said, hands on the naked flesh above her stockings. “You
can
be quiet, can’t you, love?”

Beau sucked in a harsh breath. She moved slightly, bracing herself as he pushed her thighs apart, tongue delving into the
sweet, hidden folds.

He found the tight peak at the apex and sucked hard. Beau whimpered and widened her stance. Her struggle to remain quiet only
served to spur him on. Each little choked-back sound was like a gift or a prize.

Gareth huffed a breath across her and placed an open-mouthed kiss on the sensitive skin at the top of her thigh, and then
he fastened his mouth back over her clitoris and drank her down until she collapsed, gasping and shaking, his arms the only
thing keeping her upright.

He rolled back, taking Beau with him. She landed atop him, limp. Gareth kissed the top of her head and wrapped an arm about
her. They lay curled up together until the coach heaved. It bounced and rose. Light leaked in, illuminating the scene of their
debauch.

Gareth burst into laughter, and Beau rolled her eyes.
“Whatever my hair looks like, yours is just as bad, I assure you,” she said.

The coach creaked upward and finally righted itself enough that the door could be opened. “Hurry,” Vaughn said, shoulder braced
on the side of the coach. “Not sure how long we can hold it.”

Gareth thrust Beau out ahead of him and scrambled out after her. Beau stood beside the ruins of the coach, finger-combing
her hair back from her face. She twisted the curls up and jammed them back in upon themselves. When she was done, she shook
out her skirts and surveyed the scene like a newly arrived monarch disembarking from a ship.

“I suppose we shall have to wait here while someone fetches another carriage,” she said, nose scrunched up with displeasure.
Gareth repressed the urge to laugh again. His wife was adorable when playing the haughty queen.

“That you will,” her brother said, swinging up into the saddle. “As monstrously unfair as I know you find it.” His horse minced,
knees lifted high, obviously eager to be off. Vaughn brought it quickly under control. “Either the postilion or I will be
back as quickly as we can.”

Without another word, he loosened the reins and his horse shot off down the road. The postilion raced after him, leaving them
alone with the coachman and the three remaining carriage horses.

Gareth took Beau’s small trunk from the boot and set it down under one of the blossoming fruit trees at the side of the road.
Beau sat down and leaned back against the tree, lacing her fingers together over her stomach. She looked
like a disheveled Fragonard. Beautiful, elegant, but with an underlying promise of wickedness.

She caught him staring and fiddled with her hair again. “What?” she said with a hint of a laugh.

“Nothing. Or rather, nothing of import. Just admiring the view. You should be painted just like this.”

“Disheveled and blowsy?”

Gareth shook his head and sat down beside her on the damp ground. “Radiant.”

CHAPTER 46

P
adrig Nowlin’s gut churned uneasily. Granby hadn’t said why he wanted to find the child, but it couldn’t possibly bode well
for the boy. As far as Padrig had seen, Granby had only the worst of intentions toward everyone and everything.

They’d stopped in London on their way south, and at the moment, Granby and Padrig’s sister were screaming at one another,
their shouts and recriminations barely muffled by the thin walls of the rooms that Granby had installed her in.

Padrig pulled the pillow over his head as the shouting turned to moans. He’d acted the lackey for months now in a bid to save
Maeve, but it was impossible to believe it worth it in moments like this.

When the sounds of their coupling grew louder, he rolled out of bed and yanked on his clothes. He didn’t have enough money
to pay for a room elsewhere, but he had enough for a drink. He didn’t have to be here, listening to that.

The walkway outside tilted toward the street, leaving Padrig with the sensation of drunkenness as he stumbled away. He chuffed
his hands over his arms in an attempt to warm up. He should have grabbed his coat, but it was draped over a chair in the main
room, which doubled as Granby’s bedchamber.

To make up for his lack of coat, he walked faster. He passed one dram shop after another. Raggedy whores watched him from
dark alleyways. Even more wretched-looking children huddled in doorways, piled together like puppies for warmth. It was no
different from the slums of Dublin, but the sheer size of it was startling and depressing.

Padrig eagerly fell into the first decent-looking tavern that he could find. He fished in his pocket and came out with five
shillings and a few-odd pence. More than enough to get good and drunk on.

He found a place near the hearth and paid for a mug of ale. He drank slowly enough that he could keep his seat until morning,
and with each passing mug, the sound of his sister fucking Granby got a little bit dimmer… Dawn brought him up short and his
last penny went for a bun, hot from the oven.

He pulled out his pocketbook and stared blearily at the notes jotted within. Number Twelve Chapel Street. That was where he’d
delivered Granby’s note. Where Lady Boudicea’s brother lived. He washed the last bite of the bun down with the bitter dregs
of ale in his mug and set off for Mayfair.

Viola was drinking tea and reading the morning paper when an unholy pounding on the front door startled her
nearly out of her seat. Her butler’s raised voice breached the walls, and she hurried out into the entry hall. Sampson never
raised his voice. He never had to. His resemblance to a champion pugilist discouraged any type of violent interaction.

Sampson was in the process of physically restraining a man so drunk that he was babbling. “Sher’ladyship!” the man yelled,
struggling mightily against the much larger butler. “Need to tell someone. Can’t be trusted.”

“I concur,” her butler said, dragging the man toward the still-open door.

“Sampson,” Viola said. “Bring the gentleman inside.”

Her butler’s eyes widened with disbelief and reproof, but he ceased attempting to eject the man and instead half carried him
to the breakfast parlor. Once inside, Sampson thrust him into a chair and stood menacingly between Viola and her guest.

Pen growled, raising her hackles, and Viola shushed her. “I apologize, Mister…?”

“Sh-Nowlin.”

“Penthesilea doesn’t like drunks, and I don’t much care for men who abduct women and small children.” Viola poured a second
cup of tea and nodded for Sampson to pass it to Mr. Nowlin.

“Me either,” Nowlin said, reaching for the cup. “S’why you need to find the boy before, before—” He hiccupped and held his
breath for a moment, hand clamped over his mouth. “Before Granby.”

“Granby doesn’t have Jamie?” A flutter of panic and hope made Viola suddenly nauseous.

The man shook his head and downed the cup of tea.
“Gypsies have him. Least I think they do. S’where I left him. Tell Lady Boudicea. Got to get to him first. Oh, God.” Nowlin
put his head in his hands. “Ruined everything. Again and again. Please?” He looked up. “Promise you’ll tell her?”

“I will.” Viola nodded.

He blundered to his feet, causing Pen to growl again. Sampson caught him before he fell. “Have to go,” Nowlin said. “They’ll
wonder where I am. Had to tell someone though. Too drunk to write a note.”

Sampson looked at her, expression clearly indicating that he was by no means willing to let the man simply leave.

Viola shook her head. He might be right, but holding Nowlin would do them no good. He’d told them everything he could, and
willingly. Keeping him would simply alert Granby to his betrayal and spur him to quicker action.

“Put him in a hack,” she said. “And pay the driver to take him wherever he needs to go.”

When she was alone again, she tossed the slice of toast she’d been eating to the dog and sat back in her chair to stew. Leo
knew all the horse traders, and more important, they knew him, but there was no possible way of contacting her husband, which
was infuriating.

If the boy was with the gypsies, Leo was the man they needed in order to find him quickly.

Leo could find them at this time of year, and word would spread… and the gypsies would keep Jamie safe until he could be returned.

With a growl of frustration, Viola tossed Pen another slice of toast and went upstairs to change into her habit. At a time
like this, nothing but a good gallop would serve.