A Scandalous Lady (23 page)

“What are you still doing here, Miles?” The dancing had long since concluded, and the guests who hadn't been invited to stay the weekend were beginning to collect their coats and carriages. He'd figured his friend would have long since found himself a secluded spot in the gardens and had his hands up some willing wench's skirt, not sitting in Troyce's study, supporting his mission to drown his sorrows in spirits.

“Scouring the prospects for a bride, same as you. The more scandalous the lady, the better.”

Blast Devon's wagging tongue. Soon it would be out all over the country that he'd put himself on the bloody market. “What reason have you to marry? You're not the one about to lose your entire inheritance.”

“Someone must support my unscrupulous tastes.” He grinned. “Alas, no fair maiden seems taken with my empty pockets.”

“Empty pockets? You could buy England ten times over.”

“Ah, but I've naught but a courtesy title to impress the lasses.”

“It's ironic, isn't it, Miles? You've the money, I've the hereditary title, and neither one of us is worthy enough to claim.” It shouldn't bother him; all his life he'd fought against the dictates of his parents and grandparents, shunning the society he'd been cursed with at birth.

Unfortunately, that was before his father had run him and all of Westborough into the ground. And of all those in attendance tonight, the ones who were suitably wealthy and titled enough to fulfill his grandfather's expectations wanted nothing to do with him. Those who did want him had nothing
he
wanted.

Except Faith.

Troyce slumped back in his chair. Gads, the girl was turning him inside out. She was a pocket-swiping princess, who for all he knew was out to lift him of his title as easily as she lifted the coin from his coat. And at the same time, she was earthy and unaffected. She spoke her mind, she didn't hide her feelings, and, oh damn, she aroused him like no other woman. And she looked at him as if he were her personal hero. Her dream prince. It made him want to protect her, cherish her, keep her safe from all the Jack Swifts she'd ever known in her lifetime. “She believes in bloody fairy tales, for God's sake.”

“Who believes in fairy tales?”

“The one I want.” The one who didn't even come close to fulfilling his grandfather's requirements.

Miles sighed in silent understanding of his plight. “The perfect bride will reveal herself. Give it time.”

“Time, I'm afraid, is not something I have in excess. What am I to do while I wait for the ‘perfect bride'? Watch my villagers starve? Watch my castle torn from my grasp?”

Miles stared at him. “Your
castle
?”

“Never mind,” he grumbled into his cup.

“It'll happen, my friend.” He clapped him on the back, winked, and smiled. “You just need to have a little faith.”

His gaze slid out the open doors to the gray-clad figure sneezing her way through the throng of departing guests. For once, Troyce decided, he couldn't agree with his friend more. “I intend to, Miles. I intend to.”

 

The house was dark and blessedly quiet for the first time in twelve hours. It seemed to take forever for his guests to leave, and the welcome few who remained had been made comfortable in spare bedrooms in the west wing.

Troyce knew he'd had a bit too much to drink, not enough to be drunk, but enough to know that he shouldn't be skulking the servants' halls. He should just go to sleep, but his sense of reason remained clouded with the same woman who had occupied his thoughts all evening. Nay, all week. Nay . . . for months.

Faith.

Have a little . . .

Oh, aye, just a little. Just enough to rid himself of this gnawing hunger. Once he had her, she'd be purged himself of this deuced . . . obsession he seemed to have developed for her.

The doorknob twisted beneath his hand, and clad in gray breeches and a loose shirt, Troyce stepped out of his room. The floor was cool beneath his bare soles, and a single sconce provided the light guiding him down the hall. Not that he needed light. He needed only to follow his nose. Her scent pulled him to her, and he could have found her in pitch-darkness.

He had not realized how cool it got on the third floor until a draft hit his bare stomach. Faith slept with this chill. The thought disturbed him. A woman with her fire should never be cold.

Tonight, she would not.

Tonight, she would burn for him as he burned for her. The spark he'd felt between them the first time they'd kissed would burst into flames. He'd seen it in her eyes tonight, felt it on his lips and in his blood. She lusted for him as he lusted for her.

Tonight, they would both get what they'd been denying themselves for far too long.

He reached her door and stood, his hands growing damp with unaccustomed nervousness. Should he woo her slowly, tenderly? Or drag her into his arms in the way of a commanding lover? Bloody hell. Why so unsure all of a sudden? It wasn't as if she was the first woman he'd bedded. He knew the ways of pleasing, and he intended on pleasing her as she had never been pleased before. And if she proved a satisfactory lover in return, he would persuade her into becoming his mistress until such time as he sold himself to the highest bidder.

With that decision, he let himself into her room.

 

The music surrounded her, flowed through her blood and bones, sweeping her away to a world of make-believe, where silks rustled and emeralds flashed. Where women were ladies and men gentlemen resplendent, and her world had merged, if only for a moment, with her prince of dreams.

She felt him now as she had hours before, the steely muscles of his chest beneath her fingers, the heat of his breath against her lips, his mouth upon hers . . .

The door creaked like an old man's knees, and Faith came awake with a start. Her eyes popped open. Her heart stalled. Her fingers clutched the pillow beneath her head. A squeak of the floorboards alerted her that she hadn't mistaken the sound of the door. Who would be stealing into her room at such an ungodly hour? Someone up to no good, certainly. The house was full of sotted gentry, and she'd found herself dodging groping hands more than once throughout the course of the evening.

Should she scream? She wanted to, God knew. The sound became a physical sensation, building in her throat, choking her. Would anyone hear?

Would anyone care?

The faint odors of spirits invaded the room, and she sensed the intruder drawing closer. Her breath was trapped in her chest. She let her eyes shut, hoping that if she pretended sleep, whoever it was would leave.

Another creak.
Oh, God
. She slipped her hand beneath the sheets, searching, seeking. For what she hadn't a clue. Just something to make her feel less helpless. Even the tiniest of weapons would give her some measure of power. Finding nothing, she moved her other hand over the side of the bed and tapped her fingers against the floor, beneath the metal framing. Her fingers brushed against something long, solid, and slender. A handle.

The intruder reached her bedside. Faith didn't give herself time to hesitate; she wrapped her hands around the handle and just as the bed dipped under the intruder's weight, she swung. In the same moment she heard a familiar voice whisper her name, the weapon made contact with a clanging thud.

“Ow, bloody hell!”

“Baron? Omigod!” She scrambled for the matches on the bedside table. His groans of pain told her she hadn't killed him, but she could have done some major damage.

“What did you hit me for?”

The match flared to life and she touched it to the candlewick. “I didn't know it was you!”

“What did you hit me
with
?”

She glanced at the blackened, skillet-shaped object she'd dropped onto the counterpane. “A bed warmer.”

“Son of a—that
hurt
!”

She rose on her knees beside him and propped her hands on her hips. “Well, you shouldn't be skulking about in a person's room in the middle of the night!” She reached for his head. “Let me see.”

He shielded his head with his arm and shied away. “No.”

“Let me see—I don't want you bleeding all over my blankets.”

When he dropped his arm, she parted the thick strands of his coal black hair and prodded the back of his skull. “You'll have a goose egg to be sure, but you'll live.”

“No thanks to you. If I'd have known this was the welcome I was going to get, I wouldn't have come here.”

“You shouldn't have come here anyway.”

“I know.”

She sat back on her heels and rested her hand on her knees. “Then why did you?”

“Because I couldn't stay away.” He slanted his face toward her. “What are you doing to me, Faith?”

How was she supposed to answer a question like that? “You've been drinking.” She frowned.

“Aye, a little. Do you want me to leave?”

She fell silent and debated whether or not to answer. He didn't look dangerous. Just lonely. And if truth be told, she was lonely, too. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“What you planned on doing when you came into my room.”

He was quiet for a moment. A tense heat permeated the air. Faith's skin prickled with a premonition that she'd just entered forbidden territory.

“What if I told you that I planned on making love to you till dawn?” he said.

Her breath caught, her eyes widened. Her pulse began to quiver.

“What if I told you that I can't stop thinking about kissing you?” His slumberous gaze fell to her lips, then dropped lower and her breasts grew heavy with remembered pleasure, her nipples hardening against her thin cotton shift.

“Or that the scent of you . . .” He moved closer, slowly, seductively, grazing her neck with his nose. “. . . drives me mad with desire?”

His lips touched the rapid pulsebeat at her throat. Her lashes fluttered down. Sensations, wild and mysterious, sped through Faith's entire body. His mouth opened against her neck, his tongue caressed the sensitive flesh. And when he suckled, she felt as if her bones were melting. “Baron . . .”

“My name.”

“Troyce . . .”

He lifted himself from the bed and braced his hands on the mattress on either side of her. She knew she should tell him to stop. But the words somehow got tangled in her mouth, and her brain had stopped functioning.

Weightlessly, helplessly, she floated backward, the mattress cushioning her fall.

“What if I told you that I've dreamed of having you naked beneath me. . . .”

He hovered above her, his hands on either side of her.

“Of feeling your soft skin against mine.”

His voice was husky, seductive, as, with one deliberate, fluid stroke, he pressed his loins against her womanhood.

“Of sliding inside you . . .”

Every long, hard inch of him moved against her, nothing but her shift and his breeches preventing him from claiming her.

“Filling you . . .”

“Troyce . . .”

Before she could protest, his mouth covered hers in a kiss so hot, so greedy, so wild that Faith's thoughts scattered. Her hand fluttered in midair before finally settling on his chest. His tongue tangled with hers, and she moaned at sheer pleasure of the taste of him. Brandy and chocolate truffles. Rich. Smooth. Completely irresistible. The kiss was long and deep and searching. His tongue thick in her mouth and his body hard against hers.

His hand moved from her cheek to her nape and his fingers clenched in her hair. “Faith . . .” he moaned into her mouth.

She tore herself away and, breathing raggedly, she pressed her hands against his chest. “Baron, stop.”

“I can't.”

“You must. You shouldn't be here.”

He stilled, then drew back.

“I think it's best you go.”

“You want me, Faith, as much as I want you.” His brow furrowed, confusion swirled in his eyes. “Dammit, why are you denying us?”

“Aye, I do want you, Baron. More than I ever thought it possible to want a man. But I told you before, I will be no man's whore, not even yours. Nor can I be your mistress, or your lover. That's the promise I made to myself.”

He didn't move, he didn't breathe. For several long, crackling seconds he simply stared at her. “If I made you my lady, would you have me, then?”

Faith's heart leaped. Her breath caught. It was the brandy talking, she told herself. Or the moment. Whichever, she doubted he was even aware of what he'd said. Even so, if he did remember come morning, she wanted him to know that if his intentions were truly honorable, she would take him. “Aye,” she brushed a lock of hair from his brow and smiled tenderly. “I would have you, then.”

And Troyce closed his eyes, feeling the bottom fall out of his stomach. They'd been right all along. She didn't want him. She wanted his cursed title.

Worse, he didn't care. He'd give it to her, if he could, just to have her, just to hold her.

He was no better than his father.

He pushed himself off her, away from her, and headed for the door, aware that if he didn't put some distance between them this moment, the self-control he'd always been so proud of was going to snap.

“Troyce?”

“Good night, Faith.” With a bittersweet grin, he added, “Sweet dreams.”

Chapter 16

H
e knew she stood behind him without turning around to look. Her scent drifted in the wind, soaked into the sands, saturated his blood. An iridescent moon hung high in the blackness above, and a briny wind blew in off the Channel, but it did nothing to cool the fever raging through his blood. He feared that nothing ever would.

“It's beautiful here,” she said at length.

“Aye. My father loved this place. Unfortunately, my mother preferred Radcliff, so we never spent as much time here as he would have liked.” He pointed across the water. “On a clear day, you can see the outline of France in the distance.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“Often. It's my grandfather's homeland.
Et
tu?
”

“I was born there.”

“You were born in France?”

“Don't look so shocked, Baron. I wasn't always a pickpocket,” she reminded him.

“Forgive me. It's just that you don't sound French.”

“I'm only half-French.”

I'm only half-Brit.

Is that anything like a half-wit?

“You're angry with me,” she said.

“Not with you.” Or maybe he was. He didn't know anymore. He kicked a drift of white sand and squinted into the night. Moonlight played with a spray of waves, making the caps iridescent. “I shouldn't have come to your room, Faith.”

“No, you shouldn't have.”

Knowing that he couldn't explain his actions to her any more than he could to himself, he squinted at a stream of moonlight on the water's surface. “What brought you to England, Faith?”

“A ship,” she said, and his heart jumped. He couldn't remember a single time when Faith had joked about anything. She was always so serious.

She strolled down to where he stood at the water's edge, letting the waves roll over his bare feet, and crossed her arms about her tiny waist. “My sister and me . . . we used to play this game when we were little. One of us would hide and the other would go aseeking.” The cant of her upbringing slipped unbidden into her speech. “The day me mum died, m'sister was frightful upset, and didn't want to go to the buryin', but Papa told her that he needed us to be brave little girls. So we got into the carriage. There was a boy with us, a cousin I think; there were so many people that me head gets muddled. But I remember being at the cemetery, and I remember that I couldn't find my sister. I remember thinking she was hiding, playin' our game, so I went to seeking. No one noticed; they was all so teary.”

He caught a glimpse of her profile, watched her work a knot down her throat.

“I walked around for a long time, calling and calling, ‘Ho-ne-sty, come out, come out wherever you are,' because it was part of the game we played. But I couldn't find her. I went back to me mum's buryin' place, but there was no one there. Everyone had left.”

“Your family left you at the cemetery?”

“I expect so.”

“What did you do?”

Her brow furrowed. “I think I fell asleep. The next thing I remember is a man standing over me. The sun was behind him, and I couldn't see his face. I thought it was my father, so I called out to him. It wasn't my father though.”

“Who was it?”

She looked down at their feet. Sand stuck to his toes and to the tips of her shoes.

“A fellow named Cappy. He said that my family didn't want me anymore, and I was supposed to live with him. Only him and his lady didn't want me either. She put me on a ship. I don't remember much after that.”

“I'm surprised you remember that much.”

“There's some things in life you can't forget, no matter how hard you try.” Like him, she squinted into the distance. “Sometimes I can still smell the stench of the hold, though. And I remember the orphan house. But mostly, I remember how Mama smelled, and how Papa cried when she died.”

She looked at him, her expression confused and lost and adrift. So much like he felt at this moment that it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms and never let go. “Why didn't he want me anymore?”

His gut twisted into knots and his heart wrenched. “I don't know, Faith,” he answered helplessly, wishing he had the answers she sought. “But I want you.”

“I want you, too. More than I ever thought it possible to want a man.”

“What if I told you that I've nothing to offer you? Just me. Just now. Would you still want me then?”

She knew what he was asking. It was there, in his eyes, that same need she felt, to simply be accepted for the man he was. What had he told her once? Most only knew the title, not the man?

“With every breath. I have since before I met ye.” The acknowledgment should have shamed her. But it didn't. When he'd left her room, she'd been so afraid that, like so many others in her life, he'd just disappear. And she'd never know what it was like to be loved. Deeply. Passionately. Completely.

Without considering the consequences, without examining her reasons, she'd quickly donned her clothes and followed him.

“What if . . . what if I told you that I want you to be the man who makes love to me. The man who feasts upon my lips, buries himself in my body, brings me to the highest of heights?”

He spun around, grasped her upper arms in his, and drew her against his chest. His breathing came in harsh, labored gasps. For a moment she thought he would kiss her again and her heart soared.

Instead, he hissed, “Go back to your room, Faith, before I lose what little will I have to resist you.”

“I don't want you to resist me, Troyce.”

“Damn you, I'm trying to be a noble man!”

“Who said I want you to be a noble man?”

She watched the battle wage on his face for just a moment before he tugged her to him and covered her lips with his. Sparks exploded in Faith's head, and her arms wrapped around his neck to keep from sinking. The kiss was not gentle as it had been under the staircase. No, this kiss was wild, hungry, almost desperate. His tongue thrust into her mouth, slewed across her tongue, explored the sensitive recesses with an authority that had her bones melting. Faith could hardly breathe, and she didn't care. He was her breath, he was her heartbeat, he was her dream come true. Every touch, every look, every word wrapped around her and tied her to him with a bind she couldn't deny and no longer wanted to resist.

She pushed herself closer, clung tighter to his neck, plunged her fingers into the soft, midnight hair at his nape. She ached for him in places she'd never dreamed could ache. Just when she thought she couldn't endure another moment of his assault on her senses, he drew back, his chest heaving, his eyes like pitch.

“Will you come with me?”

Anywhere, she thought. Even if it meant being cast away again. The promise she'd made to herself so long ago, the vow she'd made on her mother's soul, seemed so unimportant when he reached out to her. Faith nodded, then took his hand. She had no idea where he meant to take her, or how she followed him. Her legs trembled so badly that she could hardly stand.

He walked backward, his hand clasping hers, his eyes dark as a stormy sky. She couldn't look away. Liquid heat pooled in her belly and that same, mysterious throbbing from before pulsed between her thighs. Every brush of her starched skirt against her skin seemed to set off tiny sparks.

As if sensing her urgency, as if sharing the sudden haste for privacy, Troyce turned on his heel to walk forward along the shore, his stride long and purposeful through the sand. They reached the path that would take them to the cove.

As he led her toward the door to the boathouse, a pang of doubt assailed her. Then she was inside. The door slammed shut, the bolt slid home. And Troyce took her face in his hands and pressed her back against the cool stone wall. She could barely see him in the dimness but she could feel him. His legs flanking hers, his hard and swollen manhood eagerly jutting against the apex of her thighs, his breath ragged and oh-so-sultry against her lips.

And doubts scattered to the four corners of the earth, replaced by need so potent she nearly wept. She wanted to feel his mouth on hers, wild and hungry. She wanted his hands on her body, exploring the most intimate recesses of her body.

But he simply stood there, his hands on her face, his body taut with a restraint she didn't understand. “Please,” she, who never begged, then begged him.

“Please, what, princess?”

“Please make me yours.”

And that was all it took. His mouth fell on hers, devouring her. Faith wrapped her arms around his waist to keep from sinking. With deft, practiced movements that would make even the most talented knuck cry with envy, he released the buttons of her collar. His fingertips seared her throat, her collarbone, while her breasts strained against the confines of her bodice in eager anticipation of his touch. Then lower he went, to the inner curves of her breasts, his fingers fumbling now, his knuckles brushing the tender flesh of her ribs, then her belly. At last he stopped at the waistband of her skirt.

A breeze blew in through the gap in the fabric, and Faith's nipples tightened.

“I want to see you,” he whispered.

“I want to feel you,” she whispered back.

His eyes narrowed and a growl rose in his throat. “Keep talking like that and this won't last nearly long enough.” He gripped the panels of her shirt and peeled the fabric away. He sucked in. Faith glanced down. Her nipples poked against the sheer muslin of her chemise.

She knew that a proper lady would shield herself.

But then, a proper lady wouldn't be here in the first place, either.

She felt wicked and scandalous and desired. And she loved it. Because she loved him.

She watched as he brought his hands before him, palm out, and brushed them across her protruding nipples. Faith gasped. Stars exploded behind her eyes.

“Oh, God, you're beautiful.”

Again his palms brushed her. She nearly went through the stone. It was torture. Sweet, glorious torture to stand against the cold wall and feel his hot hands against her, touching her. Her clothes became stifling and she wanted them off. At the same time, she wanted him to continue his exploration.

“Oh, Faith . . .” And he opened his mouth against her neck. Her pulse went wild. His chest flattened against her breasts and she whimpered. He suckled her neck. She grabbed the muscles of his back. “Troyce, enough, please . . .”

“What do you want?”

You!

“Do you want this?” He thrust his pelvis against her hips. She cried out, “Yes!”

“Or this?”

He cupped her breast with his hand and squeezed gently. “Oh, God, yes.” And a rhythm began, thrust and squeeze, thrust and squeeze. The earth beneath her quaked, the sky above her fell. Powerful currents of sheer sharp pleasure coursed through her body.

She didn't think sensations inside could get any stronger; then he dropped down and wrapped his lips around her nipple.

“I can't, I can't . . .” The back of her head rocked back and forth against the wall. If he stopped, she'd no longer exist, she swore it. Her fingers dug into his scalp. He pulled and tugged with his mouth through the moist material until she thought she'd die if he didn't get her clothes off.

Faith yanked at the ribbon herself then tore at the fabric, sobbing her frustration when it wouldn't give. “Help me, Troyce . . .”

“Is this what you want?”

And with both hands, he ripped the shift down the middle. Her breast spilled free, heavy swollen, needy.

And he was so hungry.

Troyce dropped to his knees, filled his hands with her breasts and, greedy for the taste of her, pulled one distended nipple into his mouth. His palm formed to the curve of her, shaped her, molded her. She writhed and whimpered as he pleasured her, and her reaction drove him wild. When he felt his restraint reach the breaking point, he lifted Faith into his arms and carried her down the path, then up the stone steps before he lost control and took her against the wall. He had no idea how they reached the deck, but once there, he laid her upon the smooth, varnished planks. Her breasts, exquisite, golden mounds, the areolas dark and puckered, remained eager.

He reached behind him, grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt, and tried unsuccessfully to pull the garment over his head. His knee between her legs, lost among the layers of petticoats and skirt, he braced himself above her. “Your turn. Touch me, Faith.”

Her hands were tentative at first as she reached for him, then the touch of her palms against his ribs had every muscle in his torso tightening to the point of pain. His nerves quivered and his head spun. A fine sheen of sweat beaded on his brow.

Moving against her, wanting inside her so badly, he longed to hike her skirts up to her waist and drive his sword home. But he held himself in check as she explored the feel of his midsection and chest. Troyce finally could take no more of her sweet torment and wedged his hand behind her and found the button of her waistband. She rocked her body to give him access and the skirt went slack.

Raining kisses upon her breasts, down her belly, he worked the skirt and its accompanying undergarments past her hips and down to her knees. Faith kicked the material away and reached for him, and he laughed huskily at her impatience. Never had he more enjoyed a woman wanting him. And he wanted to savor this moment, savor her.

With his hands on her knees, he let himself feast upon her body. She was still too thin, but not like the first time he'd seen her nude.

She raised up on her elbows and looked at him, her eyes drowsy. The blouse she still wore draped her breasts and waist in a curtain of white, her hair was gloriously tousled, her lips puffy and a deep, cherry red. He could do naught but stare in wonder. That she would give herself to him, no promises, no titles, no fortune, made him dizzy with awe.