The Seduction of an English Scoundrel (16 page)

She flexed her spine, felt the excitement coursing through her blood. When he touched her, she became her unleashed self, different, lush and alive, so ripe for his seduction, burning with the most outrageous urges she could imagine. Every brush of his chiseled mouth, every foray of his fingers sensitized her skin.

“Come closer,” he said in a husky voice, drawing her against him until she was practically straddling his thigh, his hand hooked around her bottom. “That's better, isn't it?”

“Better for what?” she whispered, the hunger inside her so deep it actually hurt.

He had realized in the chapel that she had a sensual body, a man's private fantasy. Now he indulged that fantasy by exploring those luscious curves, the soft globes of her breasts, the shapely backside that sat so plushly between his thighs.

“I wanted to do this on your wedding day,” he admitted, burying his face in the white mounds of her breasts. His hands tightened around her rib cage. “I was entranced by you even while you waited at the altar.”

She arched her back and gave a breathless laugh of shock and pleasure. “Well, considering the scandal I caused myself, it's a good thing you didn't act on your impulses.”

He tugged down her sleeves, giving him access to her tempting breasts. His mouth closed tightly around a dusky nipple, drawing the pebbled crest between his teeth to tease with his tongue. He resented even the dress of hers that came between them, the fact they weren't exactly in a spot conducive to uninterrupted exploration. This was reckless, impetuous, insane, and he loved every moment of it. Of course he would not allow anything to go too far. But for now he was aroused past the point of reason.

He moved his left hand down to her ankle, stealing up her skirt until his fingers closed around her knee, tickling the silky underside. Seconds later he was touching the creamy skin above her stockings, drawn to the warm delta of dewy flesh between her legs. He imagined the pleasure of tasting her there, being inside her, and desire knifed through his body.

She shivered as he tangled his forefinger in her nest of curls, but her shock was soon replaced by a longing so intense she could not move. She had wanted her freedom from Nigel, the chance to find her own love, but was this what she had bargained for? Her blood sizzled at this intimacy, and even though she was afraid, anticipation electrified her nerve endings. Being with Grayson was beyond anything in her experience or personal fantasies.

He groaned against her mouth. “Oh, my God, Jane, you're trembling all over. Just relax and let me give you pleasure.”

“Relax? I feel as though I'm going to die.”

“You're not going to die. Well, perhaps in a way, but trust me, it will be very nice.”

“Trust you?” she whispered unevenly. “Just look where trusting you has taken me.”

Then stop me, he thought, because he couldn't find the willpower to end this exercise in self-torture. She had never been touched like this before, and the last thing he would do was deflower her on a garden bench. Yet he wanted to. He wanted to bury himself inside all that sultry heat and unawakened fire. The scent of her filled his mind with black selfish passion. His whole body shook with it.

Jane buried her face in his neck, trying to fight the glorious sensual haze that hung over her. When he parted the damp folds of her sex and pressed his finger inside, she was too surprised to resist, too distracted by the unbearable rush of pleasure to mount a defense. It was enough to cling to sanity as the friction of his petting took her to the edge and released her to the waves of sensation that inundated her. Oh, the wonder of it. The dizzying pleasure. Her head swam with a blur of colors.

He held her so tightly that she found it hard to draw a breath, to return with reluctance to earth. In the distance she heard a swell of laughter, voices growing louder like the buzzing of bees as a group of guests approached the maze. She turned her head in apprehension.

“I think—”

“I hear them,” he murmured hoarsely, his face buried in her hair. “It's all right. Let's put you back together, darling. No harm done.”

She covertly straightened her dress, her voice unsteady. “Perhaps not to you. I do not think I will ever be the same. Dear heaven, my hands are shaking, Sedgecroft. Am I putting all the pieces back in their proper place?”

He examined her over from head to toe, his perceptive gaze lingering on her face. The white knight had failed miserably in his attempt at chivalry again. What had he done to her tonight? What folly had possessed him? “Lovely pieces they were, too,” he said softly. “It does seem a shame to hide them.” He lifted her from the bench, holding her against him for a moment, wondering whether she would run from him after this and never return. How was seducing her supposed to fit into their scheme?

“You look even better than you did before,” he added in a quiet voice. “I'm the one returning to the party with his rhubarb at full rise.”

“Your—”

“Hurry, Jane, before we are missed. We must not be seen leaving the maze together.” Teasing aside, he was not about to chance involving her in another scandal. “We'll find that cheese you are craving, shall we?”

Chapter 14

They strolled back across the garden and allowed the night air to cool their passion, blending into the cluster of guests outside as if they had never left. He held her hand only until they reached the revealing lantern light. In truth, he did not feel like letting her go. It had been wrong of him to take advantage of her vulnerability. Yet for the life of him he found it impossible to resist her.

He wondered what it was about Jane that undid him when he had encountered every sort of feminine wile under the sun. And then he knew. Jane was simply herself. She did not put on airs. She wasn't out to entrap or impress him. She was Jane and that was more than enough.

No one had missed them, thankfully. They might have been chatting on the lawn for all anyone knew. But still this had to stop. Grayson had to stop himself, or Jane was going to end up worse than before.

“Are you going to render me insensible every time we're together?” she asked without looking at him.

He glanced down at her with a rueful smile. “I suppose I deserve that.”

“It wasn't part of your plan for my social redemption, was it?”

“I never plan in that much detail, at least not when it comes to women,” he said. “Being unpredictable creatures, they require a certain freedom of expression from a partner if peace is to be had.”

“That is not an answer, Sedgecroft.”

“Would you feel better if we scheduled these ‘renderings' ahead of time?”

She sighed. “I suppose I'm as much to blame as you, but I think I'd feel better if we could control the urge to commit them at all.”

“Commit them? As if they were mortal sins or murders.” He came to a dead stop in the middle of the parterre, his face half shadowed in the lantern light. “It's Nigel, isn't it?”

“Nigel has nothing to do with this,” she said, managing to sound quite convincing.

“Yes, he does. I understand something of women, Jane. In your heart of hearts, you hope he will return. As a loyal woman, a woman of integrity, you intend to show him that you did not yield to temptation while he was off on his—his bachelor's pilgrimage.”

“What bachelor's pilgrimage?”

“It does not appear that there was any foul play involved in Nigel's disappearance. I'm sorry that he appears to be alive.”

“You're sorry that your cousin isn't dead?”

“It would have saved me the trouble—do you wish me to find the truth or not?”

A flush of foreboding swept through Jane like wildfire. How close to the truth would he come? Nigel had promised to cover his tracks until such a time that he and Jane deemed it safe for the fact of his marriage to come out.

Neither of them had counted on Sedgecroft's, and now Heath's, interference. What a complicated game this had become.

She drew a slow breath, summoning all her courage. “Speaking of the truth, I think you ought to know how I feel about Nigel.”

He frowned. “I do.”

“You couldn't possibly.”

“You are an intelligent, unusual woman, Jane, but you aren't as adept at hiding your feelings as you may think.”

“What about you, Sedgecroft?” she asked in hesitation.

He regarded her with a puzzled smile. “What do you mean?”

“No regrets over Helene?” she asked gently.

“You must be joking.”

“No, I'm not. She must have wounded your feelings.”

“Not in the least.”

“Are you being honest with me, or is this pride?”

“I find the situation altogether too amusing and enlightening.”

“Hmm. Someone is putting on a good front.”

“Now who would that be?”

She gave him a skeptical smile. “Let's just say one of us is a brave little soldier, and it isn't me. The woman who was supposed to be your next mistress is parading around with another man.”

“Darling Jane, if Helene had meant anything at all to me, do you think you and I would have been alone together in that maze?”

She wavered, rescued from a reply by the sight of her brother walking toward them. She had not even begun herself to make sense of that magical interlude in the maze. One complication seemed to lead to another until her life had become a veritable Gordian knot. “Ah,” she said. “Simon finally appears, and only twenty minutes too late to investigate what we were doing in the dark.”

Grayson laughed. “Oh, Jane, that sensible side is showing again.”

“Yes,” she said, moving past him at a brisk walk. “And only twenty minutes too late to do me any good.”

 

Jane felt awash in misery, dancing with young men who were either too stupid to realize she was a scandal, or too socially disconnected to care. How could she concentrate on a proper conversation when her heart was still racing from that encounter with Sedgecroft? How could she engage in a game that there was no hope at all of winning? The more she knew of Grayson, the more she was enthralled by him. And the way he had touched her. Oh, her body still quaked from it.

“Oh, just look at him,” she muttered. “Standing there like a lion.”

“I beg your pardon,” her dance partner said as the final steps brought them back together. “What did you say?”

She snapped open her fan. “I said that I was tired of standing in line.”

“Oh, yes. Silly dance, isn't it? Would you care for a lemonade?”

“If you don't mind. I'm parched.”

She wended her way across the dance floor to talk to Cecily, who held court before a cluster of aristocratic friends. Jane could hardly ignore Sedgecroft, so she gave him a covert wave. The smile he gave her in return was positively smug and infuriating, a reminder that he would never let her forget what had just happened between them.

She wondered why
she
had been so accepting of what they had done. Why she wasn't more shocked and repentant instead of basking in the afterglow of her glorious sin. She knew all about his reputation with women. But then no one had explained how wonderful it was to be the object of his notorious attention either. No one had explained that while she could deviously plot out her life, what happened to her heart was another matter altogether.

 

Grayson watched as Jane danced with two or three young gallants, all of whom were undoubtedly drawn to her radiant pink glow. Well, he thought cynically, leaning his shoulder against one of the ballroom's four enormous pillars, he could claim responsibility for putting that blush on her cheeks. He ought to have apologized to her instead of teasing. But he was more sorry at the moment that he hadn't been in a position to take their encounter a little further. The truth was, he had probably done enough damage for one night, and he could not possibly continue their relationship. Damn it, what had he been thinking? Away from her, his ability to reason had returned.

He would dearly love to lure her to his bed. He wanted to take Jane in every way known to man. Yet that pleasure would never be his. Family obligations, he reminded himself, were his priority. Which also reminded him that Chloe had been openly scornful of his threat to pack her off to the country should she give him one more reason to mistrust her. Her unhappiness, her rebellion, troubled him deeply. It was only a matter of time before her defiance would force his hand.

His thoughts returned to Jane. The scent of her, the creamy texture of her skin. The shy-aggressive exploration of her hands over his body. That awkward touch of hers had brought him to the boiling point. He didn't know what to do with himself except stand here, shaking inside, like an adolescent.

“Coming to play cards?” a friend called behind him.

He shrugged, welcoming the reprieve from this exercise in self-torture. “Why not?” And as he turned, he noticed a tall dark-haired young man break from Cecily's group to gaze at Jane with a look Grayson recognized only too well.

“Denville, who is that man there, the one watching Jane like a hawk?”

“Oh. Baron Brentford, isn't he?”

“He looks rather intense.”

“Intense is the word. I heard he tried to kill himself last year when Portia Hunt left him for his brother. Are you coming or not?”

“In a minute.”

Grayson narrowed his gaze. Jane was staring the brooding young baron in the eye, nodding gravely at whatever he had said. Suddenly her focus shifted, and she met Grayson's stony regard as if she sensed his disapproval.

She sent him an uncertain smile. He did not smile back. God knew the baron was probably considered a catch, but a cheerful spirit like Jane didn't need an emotionally unstable suitor to add to her woes. Considering how well she had accepted Nigel's desertion, Grayson had to commend her inner fortitude.

He gave her a firm, admonishing shake of his head. She could do better. Yet who, he mused, would be a worthy man for Jane?

He was at a loss. This was odd. He and Jane had come closer to making love on a garden bench than he would have dreamed, and still he lingered, guilt-ridden and lurking in the shadows, while she danced and did her best to ignore him. Was this an act to show the world she would survive Nigel's desertion? Well, he couldn't fault her for taking his advice.

“Abandoned by your latest conquest already, Sedgecroft?” a woman's cool voice said at his shoulder.

He recognized the provocative French accent as Helene's, the voice of the woman he had briefly considered taking as his next lover. In recent weeks her charms had taken on a decided tarnish, and he turned reluctantly to face her. “I don't see Buckley at your side. Loosened his chain, have we?”

“He's fetching me a drink.” She studied his handsome profile in silence, experienced enough to know that his ardor had cooled. “Actually, he's afraid of you.”

“Why?”

“Because you and I . . .”

He smiled at her with the polite disinterest of a stranger. He wasn't a cruel man, but he did wish she would disappear. “Yes?”

She flushed at his dismissive coolness. “Your conquest is having quite a conversation with Brentford, isn't she?”

He glanced back at Jane, his face dark with irony. “Well, you know what they say, Helene. ‘While the cat's away, the mice play.' And speaking of rodents, isn't that Buckley hiding behind that potted fern in the corner?”

He chuckled at the obscenity she muttered in French before she excused herself to rejoin her new protector. Grayson bore her no ill feeling; in fact, he was grateful that he hadn't gotten deeply involved with her before realizing how incompatible they were. Of course, in the past, before his father died, he would have plunged in head first and damned the consequences.

Which did not mean he had foresworn wicked fun forever. Only until the clan was back in control, and this mess with the unlucky Jane had been tidied up to everyone's satisfaction.

Now, where had she gone? Her morose baron had also disappeared.

“Excuse me, Lord Sedgecroft. May I have a word with you?”

Grayson glanced around into the sharp assessing gaze of Baron Brentford. In the background he caught a glimpse of Jane standing with her two sisters, neither of whom lacked their share of admirers. “This concerns Lady Jane, I assume?”

Brentford nodded his dark head. “Is she spoken for?”

“That depends,” Grayson said guardedly.

“On what, my lord?”

“On what you have in mind—and whether Nigel . . .” He faltered. He and Jane hadn't thought this far ahead. What the blazes was he supposed to say? Half the ton believed that he and Jane would marry. Perhaps it was to her advantage to encourage this illusion. “Isn't this a question you should be asking her father or brother?”

“The viscount directed me to you, my lord. He was involved in a political debate.”

“I hardly know you well enough to speak of my personal affairs,” he said at last.

“I see.”

They stood in silence, each trying unsuccessfully not to look at Jane. Grayson had felt comfortable with her from the start, as if she'd been an old friend, but after tonight, he was afraid there might be more to it than that. What he could not guess. The baron was the first to speak again.

“I understand the pain of unrequited love,” he said unexpectedly. “I know the humiliation of betrayal that she has suffered.”

Grayson stared. Had he suddenly become someone's maiden aunt who dispensed advice to the lovelorn?

“I did not think I would live through it,” Brentford added.

“Yes, well, let's not go turning maudlin at a party, Brentford. Jane is here to distract herself.”

“Then you are forbidding me to approach her?”

Grayson glanced away from Jane. God knew he didn't own her by default. To forbid a man from courting her was not his right, especially not when he hoped to restore her availability in the marriage mart. Yet neither could he blithely hand her off to the first undesirable who came along either. He owed her at least that degree of protection.