The Seduction of an English Scoundrel (15 page)

She sat obediently on the carved stone seat as he knelt to remove her dancing pump, running his long fingers across the sole of her stockinged foot until she sighed.

“Better?”

“Much.” A treacherous warmth was stealing up into her leg. “May I have my foot back now?”

“I don't know.” He turned it this way and that. “It's a very nice foot. Perhaps I'll add it to my collection. There are men like that, you know. No, you probably don't know. No one has ever gotten into your slippers before, I can tell.”

She smiled ruefully down at him. “Is that your secret pleasure, Sedgecroft? Feet?”

He straightened with a deep chuckle. “Not me. I prefer the whole thing rather than the few odd parts.”

“How very democratic of you.”

He rose to sit down beside her, his voice deepening to a tone that raised shivery impulses on her skin. “In your case, a man would have a difficult time deciding which part is most desirable.”

“Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

“No.” His amusement fading, he took her hand, stroking his forefinger across her gloved fingertips. “Not many people know that my brother Heath was involved in espionage for the Crown some time ago.”

“I had no idea.” What was he trying to tell her? Jane sat very still, lulled by his touch.

“Heath is a very clever young man.”

And rather a lady-killer himself, she thought, or so her sisters claimed. “What are you saying?”

“I set him on Nigel's trail,” he said slowly. “I discussed this with your father in private, Jane, and we both agreed it was preferable to hiring a Bow Street man.”

The muscles of her stomach tightened into a knot of nervous tension. “Oh, but you didn't need—”

“It wasn't just for you. Nigel's behavior has put an irreparable dent in the Boscastle name.” He put his thumb to her lips before she could speak. “Yes, I know the rest of us haven't exactly set a shining example, but we are usually a little more discreet than shaming a woman in public.”

She exhaled as he removed his thumb from her lips. “Has Heath found him then?”

“No. But he has learned that Nigel was seen boarding a coach in Brighton. To where, we have not learned yet, but it won't be long before we find him.” His voice grew more determined, angry. “Heath is persistent if nothing else.”

Brighton. Jane schooled her face into an impassive expression to hide her alarm. Nigel had an aunt in Brighton, the wife of a retired barrister, so it was entirely possible he and Esther had made a detour there before proceeding to the quaint Hampshire village they had chosen to set up house.

But Sedgecroft certainly didn't know that. After all, he was only human, not some omniscient deity for all his lordly airs. He could not possibly trace Nigel to an almost invisible country village.

He rose from the bench, his broad shoulders straining the tailored lines of his black evening coat. His longish blond hair shone in the moonlight as he delivered the next blow. “I think you ought to know that Nigel has an aunt in Brighton, the wife of a retired barrister.”

She stood abruptly, the blood rushing to her head as he continued.

“It is entirely possible he passed a night there before proceeding to—” He stopped, taking her by the shoulders. “Jane, my gracious, are you going to swoon on me?”

“I am not sure,” she said in a weak voice. What would he do next? Produce Nigel from his vest pocket? “Proceeding to . . . where?”

“God only knows. But trust me, I will find out.” He gave her a gentle squeeze, his face sympathetic but resolved. “I know this does not solve your problem, but I hope it at least makes you feel a little better.”

“Words escape me. I cannot begin to describe what I feel.”

“Then sit down again. I'm afraid you look a little faint.”

She sank down onto the bench, swallowing hard. “I shall be fine.”

“Of course you—”

The sound of furtive footsteps on the path outside the maze interrupted their conversation. Whispers and laughter erupted from behind the hedge, another man and woman clearly engaging in stolen pleasures.

Jane stared at Grayson in consternation, rising as if to escape. In her opinion it was almost as embarrassing to be eavesdropping on a tryst as to be caught in one, but the truth was, she embraced the interruption with relief.

“What do we do now?” she whispered.

“Wait,” he murmured, frowning at the hedge in vexation.

 

Reluctant, she obeyed, only to understand a moment later what had caused the frown on his face.

“So tell me now, Helene, before I expire of suspense, it is over between you and Sedgecroft?”

Jane swallowed a gasp of surprise. Helene Renard. The beautiful young French widow whose English husband had died less than three months ago. The woman Sedgecroft allegedly had been courting as his next mistress. Of course it was a scandal for her to appear in public this soon in her mourning period, not even in gray or black. But pink.

Yes. Jane caught a glimpse of Helene's dark pink satin gown through the hedge. Pink the color of a woman's flesh. The color that pleased a certain reprobate's tastes.

On behalf of womanhood in general, she directed a scowl at the man sitting beside her.

“Is it over between me and Sedgecroft?” Helene mused in a bitter voice. “That is impossible to say as ‘it' never properly began. And now he is here with that mousy little jilt, Janet.”

“Jane,” murmured her male companion, whom she vaguely identified as the rather florid-faced Lord Buckley, heir to a vast fortune that he would soon squander on gambling and women. Jane disliked him, picturing his pudding cheeks.

“I did not find her at all mousy, Helene,” he said in a hesitant voice. “In fact, I found her rather appealing. In an aloof sort of way, of course,” he added hastily.

Well, perhaps Jane would have to revise her opinion of him. As soon as she recovered from hearing herself referred to as “that mousy little jilt.” Did she really resemble a mouse? Could it have anything to do with her penchant for gray?

She glanced up at Sedgecroft, all thoughts for herself dissipating at his brooding silence. If Helene was indeed the woman he was rumored to desire as his next mistress, this must be painful for him to overhear. Jane had no idea whether he cared enough for Helene to call Buckley out. What a scandal that would make if she were accused of igniting a duel. Of course the possibility of a duel would depend on her escort's reaction to this revealing conversation.

Detached, uncaring, heartbroken? One could not draw any conclusions from those half-closed blue eyes, nor from the faint smile on his chiseled lips. He might have been listening to a poetry recital for all the emotion he displayed. Most men would be absolutely livid at overhearing themselves betrayed by their love interest.

“Will you consider my offer?” Buckley asked after a breathless pause during which Jane could only conclude he and Helene had been kissing. “I have already had the contract drawn, and you shall want for nothing.”

“Ask me in the morning. I am in a foul mood tonight.”

“And what about Sedgecroft?”

“What about him?” Helene retorted in a snippy voice.

“Well, I mean, he has a certain reputation—not only as a lover, but as a fighter.”

“He loves himself well enough.”

“But I've heard—”

“I think he's boring,” Helene said in a burst of emotion. “Yes, he bores me to tears.”

“Even in bed?” Buckley inquired in an incredulous voice.

Helene gave such a wistful sigh that Jane had to raise her eyebrows at the man beside her. Sedgecroft gave a helpless shrug, having the grace to actually look sheepish.

“What I meant,” Buckley said quietly, “is that perhaps you ought to ask him for permission to take up with me. I don't relish the thought of facing him in a duel.”

“If you want his opinion, then you ask him, Buckley.” Helene's voice faded away as she returned to the central path. “That is, if you can pry him away from the paws of his pathetic little mouse. I cannot imagine what he sees in her.”

“That Belshire elegance is quite impressive,” her companion said unhelpfully.

“Oh, shut up, Buckley,” Helene tossed back at him. “You British are so unbearably obsessed with your bloodlines. I say she is Lady Mouse. The Princess of Mice. She'll probably squeak when Sedgecroft beds her.”

Jane drew a breath of indignation, half rising again from the bench before Grayson drew her back down beside him. Scandal or not, for two shillings she would shake that woman senseless—

“Don't squeak, my adorable little mouse,” he said in an amused whisper. “Wait.”

Jane folded her arms across her bodice and stared up at the starlit sky, startled when, after a minute of silence passed, he burst into quiet laughter.

She looked down her nose at him. “Have you gone quite mad?”

He pointed his forefinger at her. “Your face—it was priceless—and when she said—”

“You don't need to repeat anything,” she said indignantly. “I heard every insulting word.” He was making fun of her, not even trying to hide his amusement. What sort of man was he? Heat flared into her face. What sort of woman had she become?

“Well.” He gave a deep wicked chuckle, blowing out his cheeks in a ridiculous effort to appear under control.

“Well, what?” she demanded.

“You have to admit it was an interesting conversation,” he murmured, his blue eyes dancing.

“That's easy for you to say.” She pulled her feet away from his. “No one accused you of looking like a rodent.”

“Well, those certainly weren't my words.” He shook his head to underscore his denial. “Or my thoughts.”

“Then why are you laughing?”

“You're laughing, too,” he pointed out.

“Now I am,” she admitted, “but I wasn't at first, you cruel man. I was too offended.” Offended by the almost-mistress of the rogue who was protecting Jane from the aftereffects of her own devious act. She despaired of ever digging herself out of the mess she'd made.

He smiled. “Don't be angry with me. I would never accuse you of being a mouse.”

“Oh, no. Only a pigeon. Or an owl.”

He stared deeply into her eyes in what she assumed was an attempt to look sincere.

“Jane, it is only laughable because it is so absurd. You are a desirable female, as I've told you before.”

“I'm not feeling very desirable, thank you. I feel . . . like nibbling on a wedge of cheese. Do you think the Austrian chef has any of that Cheshire left?”

He took her chin in his hand and turned her face back to his. He wasn't laughing now. He looked a little too serious, in fact. “I said you were desirable. Do you think I say that only to make you feel better?”

“No, because if you wanted to make me feel better, you'd be fetching me that cheese. And a big sticky bun to—”

The dark gleam of unmasked desire in his eyes sent the thought from her brain. No man had ever looked at her with such naked yearning before. Certainly she had never allowed herself to be placed in a situation that left her vulnerable to seduction. With a master of the art.

Was it possible that he saw something in her that no one else could see? When he looked at her like that, she was tempted to believe him. Even if he wasn't sincere, it gave her a lovely feeling. The two of them could have sat alone in this darkened maze, and that would have been enough stimulation to fill her entire evening.

The sensible Jane told herself she ought to ask him to take her back inside, but she was riveted to the spot. It seemed that the wedding scandal had not satisfied her need for trouble. It had unleashed it.

“Perhaps we are both to be unlucky at love this season,” he said reflectively, his head dipping closer to hers.

She caught her breath, waiting in an agony of suspense. This unleashed Jane had absolutely no sense of shame. “It would appear so,” she murmured.

His lids lowered over his piercing blue eyes. Jane sighed in pleasure, only to sabotage a potentially perfect moment by asking, “You didn't even mind that she said you bored her to tears?”

His lips lifted in a smile. “Do I bore you?”

“Oh, no.”

“Well.”

She could practically feel the heat that radiated from his body. It penetrated her skin, spread into her blood and bones, sapping her strength.

“Aren't you going to do anything about Buckley?” she asked, watching his face in fascination.

He leaned a little closer. Jane's pulse points took off at a reckless gallop. “Why should I? He appears to have good taste in women.”

“Helene is beautiful,” she murmured, even though privately she thought the woman deserved to fall into a rabbit hole and never be seen again.

“I meant his taste in women as in
you,
Jane. That Belshire elegance
is
impressive.”

“Well—”

He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her deeply, drank from her lips as if his very life depended on reducing her to breathless acquiescence. She brought her hand to his chest. Her fingers met a wall of granite muscle beneath which his heart beat in the heavy cadence of desire. Hard. Warm. Devastating male to the last inch.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Touch me, Jane. Allow me the same favor.” He stroked his fingertips from her shoulder down into the valley between her breasts, brushing back and forth across the distended peaks until she gasped. “We shall make our own luck, you and I,” he murmured as he set his teeth to the edge of her ear.

His mouth moved down the arch of her throat. She had no idea what he meant by luck—it was all she could do to control the quivers of arousal that rocked her body. Within moments his capable hands were traveling up and down her slender frame in patent possession, caressing the indentation of her waist, the slope of her belly, the warm hollow between her thighs. Incredible. In a heartbeat he already knew her body better than she.