Seducing the Viscount (6 page)

“Not especially.” She drifted closer to the energy that shimmered about his elegant body, like an unwitting moth to a flame. “I believe Ella would be saddened more from your departure than the loss of any jewels.”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “A killing blow. Not surprising. Intelligent women are always the most dangerous.”

Mercy narrowed her gaze. “It does not take a great deal of intelligence to know that you are attempting to divert me.”

His soft chuckle brushed over her in a tangible caress. “Sweet Mercy, you would not still be wearing that charming gown if I truly wished to distract you.”

“Good heavens, do you flirt in your sleep?”

“I am not entirely certain.” His gaze dipped to take in the simple lace that hid her bodice. “Perhaps you could research the matter tonight and inform me in the morning?”

Her heart fluttered with a dangerous excitement. What was it about this man that managed to stir sensations that she had never dreamed she possessed?

“I thought you were determined not to tempt fate?” she softly reminded him.

The aquiline nose flared, and his expression was suddenly wary, as if he sensed some approaching danger. Which was ridiculous. She was an awkward, pathetically innocent spinster.

Hardly a danger to any man.

“You make it all too easy to forget.”

“Me?” She took another step closer, savoring the potent heat that was spreading through her body. “But I have done nothing.”

“You have followed me here, have you not?” His eyes narrowed. “Or do you mean to convince me that your presence in the conservatory is a mere coincidence?”

“No, I followed you.”

He appeared startled by her blunt honesty. “Why?”

“I am not entirely certain.” She wrinkled her nose. “I told myself that I wished to chide you for ignoring your aunt when she is so desperate for your companionship. But I fear that may have been an excuse.”

“An excuse for what?”

“I suppose I . . .” She squared her shoulders. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I wished to be in your company.”

His breath hissed through his teeth in a small explosion of sound. “Mercy?”

“You are rather like an exotic, perhaps even dangerous, creature for a staid, aging spinster, you know,” she admitted ruefully. “I have never encountered anyone quite like you.”

“Christ.” With a sharp movement he had pushed away from the desk and paced toward the statue, as if he might throw himself on the waiting trident. “Should I be offended or terrified?”

“I doubt anything or anyone could terrify you.”

“You would be wrong,” he muttered.

She frowned, not at all certain why his voice sounded so harsh. Was he angered that she had followed him? Or angered that she had interrupted his furtive search through his father's desk?

For a moment she considered the very sensible notion of turning on her heel and leaving the gentleman to his strange antics. It was clear he was not overly pleased to have her company.

Then she gave a shake of her head. She had less than a handful of days before being carted back to her tedious life. She intended to enjoy every moment to the fullest.

And that included spending time with this gentleman who managed to make her feel so brilliantly alive.

“Tell me about your life in London.”

He remained silent, his head bent as he studied the marble feet of Poseidon. She feared that he might simply ignore her before he heaved a deep sigh and slowly turned to face her.

“What do you wish to know?”

Everything.

She wisely kept the too-revealing word to herself.

“How do you spend your days?” she instead demanded.

His lips twisted in a sardonic smile. “I am a rake, my sweet. My days are spent abed recovering from a night of debauchery.”

“Ah. And what does your . . . debauchery include?”

“Such things are hardly fit for virginal ears.”

“Now you sound like my father.”

“No doubt a wise man.”

She folded her arms over her chest and regarded him with a challenging tilt of her chin.

“Perhaps, but if I am never to experience the wicked pleasures of London, then I should at least be allowed to know what I am missing. It is not really so much to ask, is it?”

His lips twitched, although he was careful to keep his expression bland.

“Very well, although I feel compelled to warn you that you will no doubt be disappointed.”

“I think I should be allowed to decide for myself.”

“As you wish.” He shrugged. “My night of debauchery usually begins with a simple dinner with friends.”

“At your club?”

“God, no.” His crack of laughter echoed through the humid thickness of the air. “Bastards, no matter how wealthy, are not invited to join Gentlemen's Clubs.”

Her cheeks flooded with color. It was difficult to recall this man was a bastard. Not when he marched through the world as if he were lord and master.

“Oh.”

His expression softened, as if he regretted causing her sharp distress.

“No matter.” His charming smile returned. “There are any number of pubs and coffee shops that serve a decent meal, most of them a great deal tastier than the boiled beefsteak to be found in the clubs.”

Mercy returned his smile although she was not fooled for a moment. He was not entirely indifferent to the knowledge he was unwelcome among the exclusive clubs.

“Then what?”

“Then I make the difficult decision of which gambling establishment I shall honor with my rather illustrious presence.”

“You gamble every night?”

“Most nights.” He caught and held her gaze, as if attempting to convince her of the blackness staining his soul. “It is, after all, how I make my living. We are not all blessed with large allowances that allow us to flutter through society without concern. There are some of us who must earn our keep by whatever means necessary, even if that means fleecing the gullible.”

She refused to be shocked. “I cannot imagine you ever fluttering. However, your aunt has spoken of several society events that you have attended, so you cannot spend all of your time at the tables.”

He dismissed his rabid popularity among the London socialites with a wave of his slender hand.

“There have been a few hostesses who have been kind enough to send me invitations.”

“More than a few, I think.” She absently reached to brush her fingers over the petals of a creamy orchid. “Do you enjoy such parties?”

“They offer their share of entertainment.”

“Dancing?”

“Seducing.”

“Oh.”

He regarded her from beneath hooded lids. “You did wish to know.”

“Yes. Yes, I did.” She licked her lips, hoping that Ian presumed the heat staining her cheeks was one of shock rather than arousal. Gads, but it was easy to imagine him prowling through the crowded ballrooms, his golden eyes smoldering with a predatory fire as he searched for the woman who could soothe his restless hunger. “What sort of ladies do you prefer?”

“Good God.” His eyes widened, and a startled laugh was wrenched from his throat. “I fear I must draw the line at actually discussing my peccadilloes.”

“Because I am a virgin?”

“Because I possess at least enough gentlemanly traits never to bandy about my trysts with a lady. Such matters are private.”

“How very noble of you.”

“Not bloody likely,” he muttered. “I can assure you that I do not have the remotest trace of nobility, despite my father's blue blood.”

“I think in some ways you are a fraud, Ian Breckford,” she said softly.

His expression abruptly hardened, as if she had touched an unwitting nerve. “I am a fraud in many ways, Mercy Simpson. Now, turnabout is fair play.”

She blinked as he took an unexpected step forward, bringing him close enough that she could catch the tantalizing scent of sandalwood.

“What do you mean?”

“How do you spend your days in your quiet village?”

Her fingers tightened on the orchid, plucking one of the petals before she could halt the revealing reaction.

“You cannot be interested.”

A raven brow flicked upward. “As you informed me earlier, I believe I should be allowed to decide.”

Mercy grudgingly accepted that he did have a point. She had demanded that he ease her curiosity, and although it was far from sated, it was only right that she return the favor.

Still, she found her stomach twisting with dread. Speaking of her dull, tedious life in the village was a reminder that this time at Rosehill was no more than a brief dream that would all too soon come to an end.

“I awaken at dawn to feed the chickens and stir the fires. Then I return to the cottage to assist my parents in rising from their beds and preparing for the day.” She kept her voice determinedly calm. “After that I cook breakfast and then spend the morning tending to the garden.”

His brows snapped together. “You have no servants?”

“We have a maid that comes daily from the village to assist in the heavy cleaning and an old gardener who will occasionally stop by to help with odd jobs.”

Expecting him to peer down his very handsome nose at her humble existence, Mercy was caught off guard when genuine fury darkened his eyes.

“So you are expected to take care of the cooking and gardening as well as tending to your parents?”

“I was born quite late in their lives, and they are now too old to assist in the chores. As their daughter, it is my duty to see to their welfare.”

“You have no money to pay for servants?”

“My father has a stipend, and I was fortunate enough to receive a small legacy from my grandmother.”

“Then why do you not have a proper staff?”

She shrugged. “My father is set in his ways and dislikes having others in the cottage. He claims they disturb his digestion.”

“His digestion?”

“Yes.”

“And he is more concerned with his digestion than the fact he treats his own daughter as a slave?”

Mercy stiffened. Her father was demanding and perhaps more obstinate than she would like, but he had always loved her. It was more than many daughters could claim.

“Hardly a slave.”

“I would say precisely as a slave.” He took another step forward, the heat of his body brushing her skin and making her shiver. “You said yourself that you are never allowed to enjoy the usual pursuits of young ladies and rarely even travel to the village.”

“Yes, but—”

“Not to mention the fact that you have been denied the pleasures of friends and flirtations and the simple enjoyments all maidens deserve. The devil take it, you have been denied your very life. And all because your father is too selfish to think of anyone but himself.”

She flinched at his harsh words, not at all certain why he was reacting with such vehemence. She was nothing more than a passing acquaintance, was she not? One that he seemed determined to keep at a distance.

“That is not true,” she insisted. “My father loves me.”

“Perhaps too much,” he growled.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Have you considered that a portion of his determination to keep you secluded and overworked is because he fears you might someday discover there is a world beyond your isolated cottage, and that on that day you will leave him?”

Mercy took a sharp step backward, her heart clenching with a sudden fear. It was more than an unease at having a near stranger insult the man who had loved and cared for her for the past four and twenty years. It was the niggling horror that he might actually be right.

“Please.” She wrapped her arms around her waist. “Stop.”

“Mercy . . .”

She gave a desperate shake of her head. “No, it is bad enough that I must soon return home, without having you make it even worse.”

Ian sucked in a deep breath. He was not quite certain why the thought of some selfish old vicar crushing the life from this sweet, vulnerable woman made him long to track down the sod and wrap his fingers around his neck. Or why he wanted to grasp Mercy by the shoulders and shake some sense into her.

He only knew that the mere thought of this maiden being hurt stirred a dark, primitive need to protect her.

It was a new and decidedly disturbing sensation. One that, when combined with the pure lust that had flooded through him the moment he turned to see her regarding him with those midnight eyes, left him feeling . . . combustible.

“Forgive me.” Even to his ears the words sounded stiff. “I did not mean to upset you.”

Her brows drew together. “And how did you think that I would react to having you speak of my father in such a manner?”

Ah, direct and utter honesty. It was no wonder the innocent country miss managed to keep a hardened sophisticate off his guard.

He shrugged, deciding that she deserved honesty in return.

“I allowed my dislike for having love used as a weapon to overcome my discretion.”

Her annoyance faded as she regarded him with a searching gaze. “You believe love can be used as a weapon?”

Christ, but she was an innocent if she did not yet realize the utter devastation that love could produce.

“You read of history, Mercy. Surely you of all people must appreciate that it is the most powerful weapon known to mankind,” he drawled. “Can any saber or pistol ball equal the pain of unrequited love? Can any torture be as painful as a love that smothers a person until they lose themselves?” His lips twisted. “Or love that is withheld as punishment?”

“You are very cynical.”

“Yes.”

With a slow, deliberate step she moved forward, the fading light slanting through the glass ceiling to bathe her in a soft rosy glow.

He hissed as a savage need twisted his gut. He had never seen anything so exquisite. Surely not even a wood sprite could possess such magical beauty.

“That does not trouble you?” she demanded, that low voice spreading through his body and tightening his muscles along the way.

He should have left the moment she had interrupted his search of his father's desk. Had he not spent the entire day avoiding the temptation of her company? He might not comprehend why he reacted to the chit as if he were still a randy school lad, but he was intelligent enough to know it was imperative that he not test his dubious control by being alone with her.

Besides, he could hardly search for his father's secret if the damnable woman kept trailing behind him and popping up without warning, he acknowledged sourly.

Perhaps it would be best if he gave her a taste of just how dangerous this game she was playing could be.

Bypassing the opportunity to ponder the sheer stupidity of his plan, Ian reached out to grasp her upper arms, his gaze deliberately skimming down to study the soft swell of her breasts.

“It is who I am, and why tender young maidens should do their best to avoid me.”

Rather than struggling, Mercy tilted back her head to regard him with her sweet, dewy innocence.

“And if they choose not to?”

With a growl, Ian had her pushed back against the nearby workbench. Damn the wench. Why would she not flee from him as every other proper maiden had the sense to do?

His hands shifted to lightly encircle her neck, his thumb absently testing the satin softness of her chin. His head lowered, his lips finding the small hollow behind her ear.

“Then they should not be surprised if they find themselves pinned against the wall with their skirts lifted,” he muttered, his words deliberately crude.

Her hands lifted, but not to push him away. Instead, the aggravating minx actually arched her body closer, brushing against his throbbing erection and nearly sending him to his knees.

“Ian.”

He gave her earlobe a punishing nip, but he could not keep his arms from wrapping about her, or his lips trailing down the enticing curve of her neck.

He had spent the entire damn night dreaming of having this woman tight against his body. Of spreading her legs and thrusting so deep inside her that she could feel him in her womb. Of filling her with his seed over and over and over. . . .

“Damn, you smell so sweet.” He breathed in her light, vanilla scent, thankfully drowning the nauseating cloud of flowery perfume. During his childhood he had come to hate the heavy aromas that filled this room and drifted through the icy corridors of Rosehill. It was a constant reminder that his father preferred the companionship of these plants to his own son. “You should not have followed me.”

Her head tilted back in invitation. “I wanted . . .”

“What? What did you want?” he prompted, his tongue tracing the line of her collarbone. “This?” His hands skimmed up the curve of her back as his hips compulsively rocked against the soft curve of her stomach. “Or this?” he demanded, nuzzling the frantic beat of her pulse at the base of her throat.

“Yes.”

He nibbled his way back to her ear, swirling his tongue along the outer shell before following the path of her stubborn jaw. He knew where he was headed. Those damnable rosebud lips of hers had been haunting him from the moment he had caught sight of her in that meadow.

Still, he kept his pace excruciatingly slow, savoring each creamy inch of her cheek. There was something rather unnerving about being the only man to have kissed a particular maiden. He wanted to be . . . hell, he wanted to be unforgettable.

How embarrassing was that for a jaded man of the world?

At last reaching her lips, Ian nibbled at the corner of her mouth, fiercely pleased when she gave a low moan and her fingers clutched at his shoulders. He forgot that he was teaching her a lesson, that this was all to frighten her into avoiding him like the plague. He forgot that he had sworn not to debauch the virginal chit.

His every thought was consumed with the pleasure of drowning in the vanilla heat that she offered so sweetly.

Allowing his fingers to dance aimlessly over her shoulder blades, Ian outlined her trembling mouth with his tongue, patiently waiting for the sigh that parted her lips. Only then did he shift his head to capture her mouth in a soft, tender kiss.

For a breathless moment she stiffened, as if considering the wisdom of traveling this dangerous path. Ian was careful not to rush, his touch so light she would know that she could pull away at any moment.

She didn't.

Indeed, her arms abruptly encircled his neck, the movement arching her body against his clenched muscles and scalding him with her heat.

Holy hell. His body jerked as a biting urgency slammed into him, his hands splaying across her back as he deepened the kiss. The taste and scent of her was clouding his mind, making him think of meadows and fresh honey. It was a startlingly erotic image that made his previous seductions seem somehow cloying and unsavory.

Intoxicated far more than a rake should be, Ian urged her lips wider, dipping his tongue into the moist heat of her mouth. Her nails dug into his nape at the unexpected caress, but Ian was indifferent to the tiny prick of pain. Christ, it was nothing in comparison to the savage throb of his erection.

He swallowed her soft moan of pleasure, his hands shifting to slowly outline her slender waist before rising up and cupping the soft thrust of her breasts.

Against all reason he forced himself to pause and await her lead. If she had never been kissed, then it sure the hell reasoned that she had never enjoyed a man's hands on her breasts.

An aching beat passed, and then another. When it was obvious she was not on the point of slapping his face, he growled low in his throat and tugged at the buttons that held her bodice together. The thin muslin material readily gaped, revealing the sensible corset and shift beneath. A considerable barrier for most gentlemen. Thankfully, Ian was not most gentlemen, and with the skill only a true connoisseur of women could conjure, he had the corset loosened and the shift pulled down to reveal the bounty he was seeking.

Unable to resist temptation, Ian pulled back to gaze down at the snowy white mounds, his heart halting as the pale pink nipples hardened beneath his survey.

His hands actually trembled as he reverently palmed the soft weights, his thumb brushing over the tender peaks. They were more beautiful than in his dreams.

Ian was barely aware he was moving until his head had dipped downward and he had his lips wrapped around the bud of her nipple. He wanted to taste her in this exact manner when he spread her legs and penetrated her. There were few things he enjoyed more than suckling a woman as she screamed out her climax.

Well . . . perhaps having her suckle his . . .

The delicious image of Mercy's sunlight curls bouncing as she took him deep in her mouth was abruptly disturbed as her soft whimper echoed through the hushed air.

It was not a whimper of pain. Quite the opposite, in fact.

It was the sound a woman made when her passions were being stirred to the point of no return.

The devil take it.

It had been less than twenty-four hours since he had promised himself that he would not be the man to relieve this woman of her innocence. And yet, here he was, holding her half naked in his arms, a breath away from yanking up her skirts and doing precisely what he warned her he would do.

He was a fool.

Whether for presuming he could dare temptation without getting burned, or for denying himself what was so blatantly offered, was impossible to decide.

Lifting his head, he glared in frustration at her flushed features and dark, siren eyes.

“Do you have no sense of self-preservation?” he rasped.

“Why?” She blinked, her breath still coming in soft pants. “Do you intend to hurt me?”

His brows snapped together at the ludicrous question. “What I intend to do is to steal your virtue, which many women would consider worse than death.”

She touched her tongue to her lips that were still swollen from his kisses. “You can hardly steal what I was freely giving.”

A heat that could have rivaled the fires of hell seared through him, nearly undoing his brief moment of sanity.

“Damn you,” he gritted, forcing himself to drop his hands and step back from her exquisite temptation. “I will not have the sin of despoiling the daughter of a vicar on my soul.”

With hands that were not quite steady she righted her rumpled shift and tugged at the stays of her corset. Ian felt a raw pang of disappointment to accept that the momentary encounter was at an end. He wanted to thump his head against the workbench, cursing his stupidity in allowing this chit to walk away unscathed. He would be suffering for days.

“So it is only the knowledge that my father is a vicar that halts you?” she demanded.

“Not entirely.” With a muttered curse he brushed aside her fumbling attempts to button the tight bodice and efficiently slid the buttons through their matching eyes. “It may surprise you, but I have never made a habit of bedding virgins.”

“Have you known any virgins?”

Dropping his hands as if they had been scalded, he regarded her with a dark frown.

“A few. All of them wise enough to slap my face when I became overly bold.”

Despite the heat staining her cheeks, she met his frown with a challenging tilt of her chin.

“Why is it my duty to slap your face?” she demanded. “Why is it not your duty to avoid becoming overbold?”

“Because the penalty for my sins would be nothing more than a hotter place in hell, why you . . . you, sweet Mercy, would be the one to suffer for a brief moment of madness.”

She appeared unimpressed by his argument. “That hardly seems fair.”

“I did not make the rules, Miss Mercy Simpson, I merely play by them.”

“I very much doubt you have ever played by the rules in your entire life, Mr. Ian Breckford.”

Well, that was true enough. He had devoted a lifetime to flaunting authority and scandalizing the humorless prigs who sought to strangle him with their notions of right and wrong.

It was only Dunnington who had managed to reach deep beneath his defensive demeanor.

The wily old tutor had suspected Ian's talent for numbers at an early age and had used Ian's brash love for cards to teach him more than just gambling. Before Ian had ever realized what had happened, he was not only happily settled with Raoul and Fredrick beneath Dunnington's roof, but he was actually enjoying his lessons.

“There must be a first occasion for everything,” he muttered.

Her smile was wry, clearly thinking of his refusal to be her first lover.

“Not for everything, it would seem.”

With her dignity wrapped about her, Mercy turned and glided down the path to the house. Left on his own, Ian moved to slam his fist against the workbench.

Damn the aggravating wood sprite.

She was surely destined to lead him straight to hell.

 

 

Leaving her chambers well before dinner was to be announced, Ella Breckford headed down the marble corridor to the master bedroom.

She knew at this hour her brother would be seated by the fire in his private sitting room, sipping his favorite brandy and reading the evening papers. In some ways Norry was as predictable as the rising sun or changing seasons.

In other ways he could be an aloof stranger that not even his beloved sister could fathom.

With a light tap on the door, Ella pushed it open and peeked into the pretty lilac and ivory room that held her brother's framed etchings of his beloved flowers. Along one wall were shelves that held his private collection of first-edition books as well as several marble busts that immortalized the long line of Norrington men.

Her heart clenched at the familiar aquiline nose and high brow that had been passed down through the ages. The same nose and brow that marked both her brother and Ian as true Norringtons.