LadyClarissasSeduction (2 page)
Read LadyClarissasSeduction Online
Authors: Scarlett Scott
Pierce Foster had made her into another woman, a wanton who
thrilled in his every caress. His inferiority mattered naught, nor did the
money her father owed him. She wanted this man as she had wanted nothing else
in her life. Her skin ached with it, her body craved it.
He tore his lips from hers and rained hungry kisses down the
side of her neck, feasting on her bare skin. “So sweet,” he whispered. He
shocked her by licking a trail of fire along her collarbone. “So delicious.”
One of his hands left her bottom to palm her breast, swirling the fabric of her
dress and chemise over a taut nipple. “Mmm.” He yanked her bodice down, leaving
her breasts exposed. When his head lowered and he sucked an aching bud into his
mouth, she cried out.
He glanced up at her, a wicked smile curving his lips. “Like
the finest summer’s berry waiting for me to pluck. Do you like this, princess?”
Heaven help her, but she did. Her harsh breathing made it
impossible to speak.
His teeth tugged again with painful pleasure. “Do you like
this, Lady Clarissa? Tell me you like what I do to you.”
“I like what you do to me,” she said finally on a low moan.
“Please, Mr. Foster…”
“Call me Pierce,” he ordered, traveling to her other breast
and laving the tender peak.
“Pierce, please.”
“What do you want, princess?” He worked her breast with his
free hand. “Tell me what you want.”
“I don’t know,” she confessed. She wasn’t entirely ignorant
of what passed between a man and a woman. After all, she heard the servants
gossiping and had once accidentally gotten her hands on a book in her father’s
library containing naughty engravings. But she wasn’t certain of the
particulars. She wanted him to touch her everywhere. Was that possible? Was it
something one asked of a man?
“I’ll tell you what I want, then.” He dropped a lingering
kiss on her lips. “I want to toss up your skirts and satisfy this ache between
us.”
Oh dear.
He must not.
“Mr. Foster.” She attempted to gather her addled wits. “I
fear this is most inappropriate.”
“Pierce,” he growled low in his throat as he followed her
across the drawing room until her back pressed against the wall. He kissed her
with each step and she clung to him, eager for more, helpless to resist. Her
tongue dueled with his. He raised her hem. Cool air swirled over her ankles,
her knees, her upper thighs.
His hand slid over the sensitive skin at the curve of her
knee. Dear God, this man was undoing her. She’d meant to defy him, beat him in
a battle of wits, and instead she was willingly becoming his victim. Falling
from grace and the plummet was divine. What was happening to her? Her body
warmed as if it had been cast into flames. She’d never known such maddening
heights of pleasure existed. Never dreamt she could feel so alive.
He caught her lower lip between his teeth and tugged. She
nipped back at him, thinking if she could consume him, in that moment, she
surely would have. She tore at his waistcoat, pulling the buttons from their
moorings. She wanted his skin. She wanted to see his chest. She wanted…
A roguish smile kicked up the corner of his lips. He seemed
as breathless as she. “This is most unexpected, princess.”
“Clarisha?”
Pierce stiffened. “Damn it to hell.”
Her father’s disembodied voice echoed through the empty
halls and reached her ears. The ramifications of her behavior came down hard
upon her shoulders. What had she done? What was she about, allowing this
commoner, this man who had ruined her father to touch her so intimately?
She pushed him from her and tugged her bodice frantically
back into place. “It’s my father,” she said,
sotto voce
. “Oh dear
heavens. You must go at once!”
Pierce Foster eyed her sullenly. His jaw tightened with what
she supposed to be anger. “What’s the matter? Ashamed you’ve debased yourself
with me, princess?”
Clarissa smoothed her rumpled skirts and glared back at him.
“You are a practiced seducer of innocents, I’ve no doubt. Pray go and leave me
to my fate.”
His lip curled. “What’s next? From the look of things, you
haven’t much left to sell other than a threadbare settee and a rather hideous
chair. How do you propose to repay the debts owed by your father?”
Before she could muster a suitable response, her father
barged into the drawing room, looking positively bilious. His thinning white
hair stood up in a most unbecoming fashion and what had perhaps been his supper
the previous evening stained his cravat.
“What are you shtill doing here, Foster?” he demanded,
stumbling against the chair Pierce had so recently disparaged.
“Seeing you keep yourself out of trouble, Darlington,”
Pierce bit out, adjusting his waistcoat and facing her father. “I’ve come to
tell you that you’ve a reprieve.”
“A reprieve?” Clarissa’s stunned voice could be heard
echoing her father’s.
“Indeed. Take yourself to the country for a month and get
your affairs in order. You’re no use to anyone in this state.”
Her father hiccupped. “Haven’t got a coach, have we, Clarisha?
Think I gave it over to Eddlesham, or was it Nidderdale?”
“You may hire a hack, then,” Pierce informed him coldly,
removing a handful of notes from his waistcoat and offering them up. “This
should be sufficient.”
“Right.” Papa accepted the money without hesitation. “Come
on with you, Clarisha. Foster is ready to take his leave.”
“No.” Pierce spoke quietly but with enough force to give
Papa pause. “Your daughter will not be accompanying you.”
Clarissa turned to him, startled. “Where shall I go, Mr. Foster?”
His dark blue gaze settled on hers, simmering with unspoken
promise. “You are to come with me, Lady Clarissa. I am afraid in this game of
ours, you are to be forfeit or I shall call in your father’s debt immediately.”
Angels in heaven.
She was horrified. Her heart,
already beating staccato inside her breast, heaved and threatened to send her
spilling to the faded Aubusson. Suddenly, the descent of her proper life as the
Lady Clarissa Darlington was complete. She had no choice. The man would take her
prisoner. Yet there was something inside her, some rogue voice, telling her she
would not mind being taken by him. Not at all.
Chapter Two
Papa didn’t offer much protestation at Pierce Foster’s
proposal that his daughter should become forfeit to such a notorious and
unsuitable man, particularly after said man stuffed a few more ten pound notes
into Papa’s open hand. And so it was that Lady Clarissa Darlington, the
one-time fiancée of the Earl of Greenwich—until her father’s reduced
circumstances became known and Greenwich begged her to release him from his
promise—found herself surreptitiously slipped into the back entrance of the
gaming hell where her father had lost thirty thousand pounds the evening
before.
The Painted Lady, far from being the obvious den of iniquity
she’d expected, appeared clean, spacious, and elegantly appointed. Apart from
the scent of tobacco tingeing the air, one would never know it for a gaming
establishment. Indeed, even the elaborately carved back stairway outshone any
she’d ever before seen. Pierce Foster left her in the care of a stately butler
named Henderson upon their arrival with a simple explanation. She was to be
their special guest for the foreseeable future and should be given the east
bedchamber.
She followed Henderson in awe, taking in every nuance of the
place, from its impressive murals on the ceiling to scantily clad portraits of
women and shocking nude statues. A gasp left her throat as she caught sight of
a particular bronze depicting a man and a woman entwined. It made her quite
flushed.
She thought again of the unexpected interlude she’d shared
with Pierce Foster in Grosvenor Square and the wetness she’d experienced made a
slow return. It was frightening and yet intoxicating how a stranger could make
her feel after just one passionate embrace. But she knew already without
experience she was his. Good or bad, she would belong to Pierce Foster.
* * * * *
Damn, double damn, and thrice damn it whilst he was about
the business of cursing himself. Pierce Foster tossed back a glass of his best
whiskey, the Scots label ordinarily reserved for the all-important task of
parting the male members of the Upper Ten Thousand with their blunt. He’d known
about Lady Clarissa, of course. Lovely daughter to the Viscount. Her beauty was
well known, her fall from grace thanks to her perpetually soused father an
unfortunate and oft-repeated tale in the gaming hells of London. Drunk men
chatter and gossip worse than women, he’d discovered.
He’d thought little of her, truth told. Never had he for
even the pause of one breath supposed she would have the ethereal beauty of a
goddess. Never had he supposed he’d be tempted to steal a kiss from a luscious
mouth, to cup a ripe bottom or a lush breast, or to—
ye Gods
—take her
home with him.
Whiskey singed a trail down Pierce’s throat. She was too
good to be sullied by him, and yet he couldn’t help himself. He would have her.
He needed, in his very depths, to consume her. She belonged to him. And she was
waiting in his private apartment. He couldn’t wait to slide into her tight,
wet, aristocratic pussy.
* * * * *
Water lapped gently at Clarissa’s bare skin. A fire crackled
in the grate. For the first time in recent memory, she was indulging in lazing
about in her bath. At home, there had never been enough servants to carry
proper water. But unlike her impoverished father, Pierce Foster spared no
expense in the pursuit of luxury. Decadence was the proper word for it. He even
had a well-appointed bathroom complete with a water-closet.
An unpacking maid had seen to her meager possessions and
after her bath was readied, she had nothing more to do than allow herself the
pleasure of bathing in the rose-scented water. Naturally, it did not escape
Clarissa’s notice the east bedroom and indeed the bathroom in which she now
bathed appeared to belong to Pierce Foster himself. The adjoining chamber
smelled of him, a maddening hint of sandalwood and smoke, and the furniture and
bed hangings were heavy and dark.
Her pulse quickened, a flutter beginning low in her belly to
think of it. She took up the cake of rose soap and began lathering on her arms.
So intent was she in her task she failed to hear the door open and close.
“I see you’ve made yourself at home, princess.”
A combination of alarm and welcome shot through her at the
familiar, deep voice. She turned in the tub, sloshing water upon the floor. Her
arms, still sudsy, went up to shield her breasts from his searching gaze. “Mr.
Foster!”
He sketched an ironic bow. “At your service, Lady Clarissa.”
“It is most improper for you to be present whilst I am
unclothed.” The proprieties remained ingrained within her, even if she was
about to make complete her fall from polite society.
His eyes were, she noted, a most attractive and unusual
shade of cerulean. They swept down over her bare shoulders to where her crossed
arms attempted to hide her generous breasts. Her nipples throbbed, aching to be
sucked by his wicked mouth.
“I’m afraid impropriety is the least of your concerns this
evening.”
The words sent a frisson through her. “Precisely what are
your intentions, sir?”
A smoldering grin curved his mouth. “The same they’ve been
since the moment I laid eyes on you. Dishonorable. Dreadfully,” he paused to
lean down and take up the soap she’d abandoned, “despicably and deliciously
dishonorable.”
She watched, transfixed, as he dipped a strong hand into her
bath water and rubbed the cake of soap between his hands. The gesture itself
was an innocent one, but the intent marking his handsome face was anything but.
“I must beg you to be a gentleman.” To her own ears, her words were breathless
with anticipation. There was no denying it.
Pierce Foster shook his head, his countenance becoming
almost rueful. “A gentleman I am not, princess. Do not fool yourself.” He
paused. “Turn round. I shall wash your hair.”
Dare she allow it? She mustn’t. “I do not require your
assistance.”
“I never claimed you did. Turn ‘round.”
This time, his words were a command. She obeyed, turning in
the tub once more to present him her back. The pins had already been removed
from her long tresses, but she had piled it artlessly atop her head to keep it
out of her way. As he put his hands into the mass, curls fell around her
shoulders, slipping into the water. His touch was surprisingly gentle.
“Lean your head back,” he ordered.
She scooted forward in the tub and tipped her head toward
him, aware of his palm cupping the nape of her neck. Bit by bit, she sank low
into the water until only her face remained dry. Above her in the mellow
lighting of the room, his face hovered, drawing inexorably nearer until his
breath washed over her lips. He kissed her, the sensation newly erotic to
Clarissa. Although their mouths were upside down, they fit perfectly together.
His tongue traced her lower lip, delicately seeking, before plunging into her
mouth.
Clarissa quite forgot the need to hide herself from him and
reached back with both arms, her wet hands going into the silky thickness of
his hair. He shocked her by cupping an aching breast in his free palm. The suds
of the rose soap worked into her hair, onto her skin, rising up from the warm
water to envelop her in a sensual cloud of sweet fragrance and moist heat.
Unthinking in all but her need to be closer to him, she
whirled around in the bath, rising up from the water like Venus to press
herself against the fine fabric of his shirt. Their kiss continued, deepening.
He nipped at her lip with his teeth, dragged his mouth over her jaw, dropped
hungry kisses down her neck. She nuzzled his hair, kissed the shell of his ear.
