To Sin With A Scoundrel (14 page)

Ignoring the low peal of laughter, Lucas signaled the porter for Ciara’s wrap and hurried her to the line of waiting carriages.

She expelled a pent-up breath but said nothing as they walked to the corner of the street.

He, too, stayed silent. Be damned if she was angry, he thought with an inward oath.
How dare she question or criticize his way of life?
The lady had no right to complain about the evening. It was
he
who had exerted considerable effort. The least she could do was to thank him, rather than ceding all the credit to his friends.

Wrenching the carriage door open, Lucas helped her inside. Her unspoken disapproval chafed even more in the tight space. The
lacquered walls seemed to be closing in on him with every turn of the wheels.

Lud, how he hated the feeling of being constricted, confined.

“If you have something to say, sir, I would prefer that you speak your mind, rather than mutter under your breath,” said Ciara
over the clatter of hooves on the cobblestones.

Unwilling to admit to any weakness, Lucas decided to cover his inner conflict by taking the offensive. After all, he reminded
himself, with his reputation as a rake and a lecher, self-indulgence was all anyone expected of him.

And he was happy to comply.

“Would you?” he answered with a sardonic smile. “I rather doubt it.”

Ciara made a face. Which only goaded him on.

“But then again, perhaps you should decide for yourself.” He angled his legs so that their thighs were touching. “However,
I warn you that my mind has a naughty habit of thinking… improper thoughts. Shall I go on?”

“Wicked man.”

“Oh, trust me, Lady Sheffield, I have not yet begun to be wicked.”

Her eyes widened.

“And wait until you see me get truly evil.”

Ciara tried to slide away, but his fingers were fisted in the folds of her skirts.

“Unhand me, sir,” she whispered.

He chuckled. “That sounds like a line from one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. You know, the ones where the helpless heroine is
trapped in a gloomy castle by a lecherous villain.” Lucas tightened his grip. “Who is intent on stealing her virtue.”

“This isn’t a novel, it’s a nightmare,” she said through gritted teeth.

“But you are no virginal schoolgirl, who needs a white knight to ride to her rescue.”

“Lord Hadley,” she warned.

Silk whispered as he slid her over the soft leather seat. Pulling her even closer, he traced the shell of her ear with his
thumb.

Ciara pushed his hand away. “Stop that.”

“Very well.” He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.

“And that.”

“Then I’m not left with many options, am I?” He inhaled a deep breath, drawing in her scent. The sweet tang of verbena tickled
his nose, along with a more mysterious fragrance he couldn’t put a name to.

“You are no gentleman, sir,” she said in a taut voice.

“Evidently not, else I wouldn’t be doing this.” Lucas lowered his head. A fleeting kiss, just to tease her… not because he
was longing to taste her lips again. His mouth touched up against hers for a fleeting moment. Just as he imagined, it was
lush with the lingering sweetness of the wine.

“Hadley…”

Her voice was a little slurred. Was it a question? A command? Impossible to tell.

“You are drunk,” she continued, tentatively touching her fingers to her lips.

“Intoxicated,” he agreed. “I so rarely indulge in respectable behavior that the shock has my body and brain totally befuddled.”

She swallowed, the tiny muscles tremoring along the pale, perfect curve of her throat. A flicker of moonlight caught the quickening
throb of her pulse beneath her creamy white skin.

“Which explains why I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”

Ciara knew she should recoil from the kiss, but a strange languidness seemed to have seized her wits. She tried to move, but
a syrupy heat swirled through her, melting every bone in her body.

“Mmmmm.” Her voice—a sultry, smoky moan—seemed to belong to a total stranger. As did her mouth.

How else to explain the eager parting of lips and the lush suckling sound as she drew his tongue inside her.

No. No. No
. A thousand times no. Since that sinful encounter in her workroom, she had vowed to keep her wicked longings buried deep,
deep inside. But here it was, bubbling up like champagne, the taste tantalizingly tart yet indescribably sweet.

His embrace was searing, the hot, demanding thrust filling her with liquid heat. Surrendering to the moment, she met his tongue
with hers, tentatively at first, then twining in a sinuous play of stroking touches. Growing bolder, she flicked a caress
along his lower lip, savoring the contrast between the smooth, silky swell of flesh and the intriguing hint of stubbling at
the corner of his mouth.

With a rough groan, Lucas rolled his big body against her and set a hand on her hip. The other tangled in her hair, and suddenly
Ciara was pinned back against the squabs by the broad bulk of his chest. The thud of his heartbeat pulsed through the thin
layers of wool and linen.

He began to move, the press of warm, masculine muscle rubbing back and forth against her breasts. She gasped, feeling her
nipples harden in response.

Lucas eased back a fraction, only to slide his hand up over her belly and cup the weight of her curve in his palm.

Another wordless sound slipped from her lips.

“I think it’s time to explore some of those other prime kissing spots on the feminine form,” he murmured against her mouth.
Holding the kiss, he slowly teased his long, lithe fingers over the peaked flesh. Then all at once, it was not his hand but
his tongue tracing a circle over her bodice. His teeth closed gently, drawing a cry from her as the wet silk tickled her sensitive
flesh.

Threading her hands through his long, tousled hair,

Ciara lost herself in the sensuous texture of its sin-dark satin. Twisting, twining, she reveled in its softness, the strands
wrapping around her roving touch like spun sugar.

It felt like Heaven—or was it Hell?

One of the carriage wheels hit a loose cobblestone, setting the oil lamp to flickering wildly as a plume of smoke swirled
around the glass globe. Dazed, Ciara tried to blink the haze of passion from her eyes.

Lifting his head, Lucas hooked his thumb in the top of her gown and slowly inched the fabric down. Another fraction and her
rosy areola would be fully exposed…

It was the draft of chill air against the wine-kissed spot of wetness that snapped the spell.

Uncurling his hand, Ciara slowed released herself from his hold. He made no attempt to stop her.

“I—I’m sorry. I—I can’t…” She bit her swollen lip. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Lucas straightened. Shadows splayed across his face, making it impossible to read his expression. “I suppose it is I who should
apologize. I meant to tease you, but I should have showed more restraint. It’s a failing of mine, I’m afraid.”

“
I
should know better.” Ciara closed her eyes. “Oh please, let us simply forget this happened?”

“Forget?” he echoed.

“Yes. You were drunk. And I was…”

Delirious.

“And I was clearly affected by the champagne. It’s been ages since I’ve had a taste,” she finished lamely.

“It’s true that I often can’t remember what I do when my wits are soused with drink,” replied Lucas slowly.

“Perhaps a breath of fresh air will clear your head—and mine.” She quickly cracked the window. “Or maybe you need a splash
of cold water.”

He choked back a laugh. “Touché.”

Ciara sighed, doing her best to banish the last few minutes from her mind. “Would that we did not always have to be at daggers
drawn, sir.”

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I can’t help myself. However, I shall make a more concerted effort to… keep my sword sheathed when
we are together.”

“Please do.” She tried to appear angry, but given her own transgressions, it was hard to muster much show of maidenly outrage.
The effect was further spoiled as she was forced to stifle a yawn. “Lord knows, I’m too tired to fight any more battles tonight.”

“You’ve no need to worry about the party. You emerged victorious on every front,” he murmured. “Your dignity and grace won
over a number of influential people to your side. In a word, you were magnificent, madam.”

Surprised by his compliment, she felt a blush steal to her cheeks. It was kind of him to say, seeing as she was feeling neither
dignified nor graceful. “Th-thank you, sir.”

Lucas watched her fumble with the strings of her reticule, but to her relief, he pretended not to notice. “No need for thanks,
Lady Sheffield. I’m simply keeping up my end of the bargain.” He, too, seemed to have decided it was safer to move away from
any more personal interactions. “Now, about my uncle’s manuscript…”

B
rilliant, brilliant! Lady Sheffield’s expertise is even more impressive than I dared to hope for.”

Henry set aside the first batch of Ciara’s notes, which had arrived that morning. “There are a number of questions I should
like to ask…” His voice trailed off on a wistful note. “But I am sure she will explain the nuances of her research as she
goes along.”

Lucas turned from the window. “If you like, you might jot down a few specific queries and I could pass them along to her.”

“Oh, it’s just several simple things, like how she thought to research the routes of the early Arabic spice caravans from
the East, and what—”

“You had better put it all down on paper,” he interrupted. “Seeing as the subject hasn’t anything to do with wine or women,
I will likely get it garbled.”

Henry’s smile was fleeting, and as he looked up, he fixed Lucas with a searching stare. “I doubt that,” he said softly. “You
have a very sharp mind when you choose to use it.”

Lucas exaggerated a yawn. “Perhaps. But intellectual endeavors require a great deal of effort, with little recompense. I’d
rather expend my energies in pursuits that offer immediate gratification.” He paused for comic effect. “Fucking is far more
fun than thinking.”

The quip didn’t elicit the expected chuckle. For a moment, the only sound was the faint crackle of paper as his uncle smoothed
the sheaf of notes. Then came a soft sigh. “My dear boy, you might be surprised.”

“I can’t imagine how.” Lucas answered with a bit more edge than he had intended. “And I have a
very
vivid imagination.”

Henry tactfully changed the subject. “By the by, on your way out, will you ask Higgins to send one of the footmen to Hatchards,”
added Henry. “My order of books from Boston has arrived.”

“I’ll pick them up myself,” said Lucas.

“No need to trouble yourself.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” he insisted. “The fact is, I have a package waiting there, as well.”

“If it’s a book of erotic etchings, I do hope you’ll allow me to have a peek,” joked his uncle. “Seeing as vicarious pleasures
are all that I have left these days.”

Lucas was undecided on whether to admit that the volume in question was a detailed history of British ornithology. Henry was
aware of his bartered arrangement with Ciara. But he had not yet told him about the side wager. He wasn’t quite sure why.

In case it blew up in his face?

Ciara had passed her first test with flying colors. This afternoon, it was his turn to be under the microscope. And thinking
about it only seemed to magnify his current way of life.
Drinking, gambling, womanizing
… the litany of his vices would likely cover more paper than the widow’s scholarly research notes.

His gaze strayed to the gilded spines of Henry’s scientific essays. If his own accomplishments were written down in stark
black and white, there wouldn’t be much to be proud of.

“Lucas?” Henry’s gentle voice stirred him from his mordant musings. “You are looking a bit green around the gills. Perhaps
you ought to sit for a bit and pour yourself a brandy.”

“Thank you, but no. I’ve an appointment and I ought not be late.”

Henry chuckled. “The lady would likely forgive you.”

“Not this one,” muttered Lucas under his breath. In a louder voice he added, “I’ll be by later with your books. If you write
out your questions for Lady Sheffield, I will pass them along. We are scheduled to make an appearance at Lady Hillhouse’s
soirée.”

“How is your experiment with her progressing?”

“I’m still alive,” he quipped.

The slanting sunlight accentuated the hollows of Henry’s cheeks. “
Carpe diem
. Do try to make the most of that gift, my dear Lucas.”