The Study of Seduction: Sinful Suitors 2 (10 page)

Very slow. Very intent. It was different from anything she’d experienced. There were only three buttons, yet he took his time, until she was ready to scream at him to be done with it. Because the attention he gave to unveiling her wrist, inch by inch, was doing funny things to her insides. Unfamiliar things.

Years ago, the man she called the Vile Seducer, now long dead, had roughly extinguished her smoldering interest in men. Yet Edwin, with his capable fingers that made her shiver with every touch, was sparking something deep in her belly.

Something she’d never thought to feel again.

When he finished her buttons, he paused, his hand lightly encircling her wrist. As if he could detect the wild thrum of her blood through her veins, he murmured, “For a woman who claims not to be affection
ate or romantic, you’re oddly nervous.” He met her gaze. “I won’t bite, you know.”

“Of course not,” she snapped.

His eyes narrowed, shining like sleet on slate in the candlelit room. “No need to get testy. You agreed to this, remember?”

She forced herself to breathe, to smile. “Of course.”

But she hadn’t expected it to be such an overwhelming feast of sensation. As he bent over her arm, the scent of his hair—tinged with musk and cloves—wafted to her, faint but distinctly Edwin. He pushed her sleeve up, baring the tender skin inside the bend of her elbow, and the merest brush of his thumb sent her blood racing.

Then his lips were on her arm. Her naked arm. She could feel the rough scrape of his whiskers, hear the clock ticking seconds that seemed to slow as his mouth pressed into the pulse beating frantically just
there
.

The kiss was tender but firm and more intimate than she could possibly have imagined. Her knees went weak, especially when he lingered there to draw in a long breath as if to inhale her fragrance.

Still holding her wrist, he lifted his head to stare at her with eyes more fathomless than they’d seemed scant seconds ago. She couldn’t look away.

So, to break the spell, she asked, “Why kiss me there?”

A faint smile touched his lips. “Call it one of those whims you seem to think I have.” He straightened, then tugged her closer. “And here’s another.”

Then he kissed her lips.

Oh
yes.
Until he’d done it, she hadn’t realized it was what she’d been waiting for. Edwin to kiss her mouth. So she could see, could know, if he truly was as different from her interpretation of him as he claimed.

In this, at least, he was. He didn’t demand; he offered. His mouth toyed with hers, as slowly and intently as his fingers unbuttoning her sleeve. It made her insane. She was used to men pushing, forcing, taking. She wasn’t used to patience or silken temptation, breaths mingling and lips caressing in equal measure.

And when he slid his tongue inside her mouth, it didn’t so much startle as intrigue her. She’d been kissed like that before, but not so eloquently. It made her restless for more.

Hardly even aware she did it, she wrapped her arms about his neck. Then everything got more interesting. The
kiss
got more interesting. He sucked on her tongue and she slipped it into his mouth, something she’d never done. Their tongues engaged in a “merry war” that made her dizzy with the sweet ache of it.

His kiss grew bolder, but she didn’t mind. She wanted it bolder still. She slid her hand inside his coat, shocked to find his heart beating as rapidly as hers. The kiss went on and on, battering her defenses, tempting her to let go . . . until he pulled her flush up against him.

She froze. She could feel the thickness inside his trousers, and she knew what it meant. Pain, humiliation.
Danger
.

Jerking away, she whispered, “No. Enough.” She
waited fearfully for his protest, waited for him to fight her, to try to subdue her.

Instead, he ran his fingers through his hair and said raggedly, “Enough. Right.”

She fought to get her breathing under control. “Edwin, I’m sorry I—”

“You have nothing to be sorry about.” He was already slipping into his formal manner. “I overstepped my bounds. You’re always well within your rights to remind me where they are.”

No man had ever said that to her. It sounded too good to be true. But then, she and Edwin had done little more than kiss. Perhaps if matters had progressed further . . .

She tamped down a stab of fear. This was Edwin, after all. “Thank you. I can always count on you to be a gentleman.”

He eyed her steadily, as if sensing that her words were as much a plea as anything. “And I can always count on you to be a lady.”

He spoke the words with perfect sincerity, yet her throat felt suddenly tight and raw. How little he knew.

“Tomorrow, then,” he said. “I shall fetch you and your mother at nine to take you to services.”

All she could manage was a nod.

He looked as if he were about to remark on her uncharacteristic silence, then sighed. “I’ll show myself out.”

The moment he cleared the door, she collapsed into the nearest chair. Heavens. Edwin could kiss. He could feel.

He could be aroused. By her. By
kissing
her.

She didn’t know what to think about that.

But one thing was certain. The next time she thought about offering him a reward, she would put the idea right out of her head.

Before it got her into trouble.

Still shaken by his reaction to the kiss with Clarissa, Edwin paused at the door of Warren’s town house to speak to the head footman. “Have you seen Count Durand hereabouts?”

“No, milord. I’ve been watching the street as you requested, but haven’t seen the Frenchman.”

Relieved that the arse wasn’t hanging about the house at least, Edwin rode from Mayfair to Pall Mall as if the hounds of hell were at his back. His “reward” had gone better than he expected. If he didn’t watch it, he might yet find himself leg-shackled to Clarissa. And that would be disastrous.

He felt again the rapid beat of her blood against his lips as he kissed her inner arm. He saw again her expression as he straightened—a heightened look of awareness and arousal that had prompted him to kiss her lovely mouth. To plunder and taste and wish he could continue drinking from her lips for days.

A curse erupted from him.
Drinking from her lips
, indeed. He didn’t want to do any such ridiculous
thing. What he wanted was to have her in his bed. Which couldn’t happen unless they married.

Remembering her reaction to him at the end, he gritted his teeth. When a woman recoiled from a man’s embrace with alarm in her eyes, it didn’t bode well for her wanting to marry the fellow.

Until that moment, she’d seemed to like him well enough. Of course, Clarissa was a known flirt, so sometimes it was hard to tell the difference between flirtation and genuine liking. Perhaps she’d merely been toying with him before.

But then, why not finish their kiss with a laugh and a teasing remark? Or a coy refusal, as some other woman might have done?

He shook his head. He would never understand her, and there was no reason even to make the attempt. This would end as soon as Warren returned. If Edwin had his druthers, it would end even sooner.

It could end tomorrow if Durand was disposed of.

The thought leapt into his head with startling clarity. Yes, perhaps he should attack things from that front. Surely the Frenchman had some weakness, some secret in his past that could be held over his head to make him stop his pursuit of Clarissa. And Edwin knew just the person to ask about it.

He went straight to the club, hoping that the Baron Fulkham, undersecretary of state for war and the colonies, would show up tonight. The baron had recently joined because his late brother’s widow was being vigorously courted, and he needed to make sure she didn’t end up in bad hands. While he was rarely present during the day, he did come in the evenings to enjoy a cigar and play cards with friends.

Fortunately, the card room was right where Edwin found him. Unfortunately, Fulkham was playing cards with Lord Rathmoor, the man who’d married Edwin’s former fiancée.

Fulkham looked up before Edwin could retreat. “Evening, Blakeborough,” the baron said, with a furtive glance at Rathmoor. “Someone said you were at Lady Maribella’s party. We didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

That was probably why the man had felt comfortable inviting Rathmoor to the club as a guest. Meanwhile, Rathmoor looked anything but comfortable. Damn. This would be harder than Edwin thought.

“I was at the party but didn’t stay to the end,” he answered.

“Come play with us,” Fulkham said. “Rathmoor is slaughtering me at vingt-un and needs some competition.”

Edwin hesitated. He’d have to be cautious in questioning the baron as it was, since he barely knew the man. With Rathmoor there, it would be even more difficult.

Still, much as Rathmoor probably resented Edwin for attempting to marry Jane, Edwin knew the viscount was discreet.

That was why Edwin preferred dealing with men. A man asked direct questions, got direct answers, and nobody pressed him for more. There was none of this nonsense about compliments and such.

Besides, as a former Bow Street runner, Rathmoor might be able to shed some light on Durand. As long as Edwin didn’t let on that this had anything to do with Clarissa, there’d be no chance of either man’s leaking information that could harm her reputation.

A card game might be the perfect venue for asking questions that seemed casual. Especially a French card game. It was an obvious opening.

“I believe I
will
join you.” Edwin took a seat between the two men. “What are the stakes?”

“Five pounds to start.” Fulkham lifted an eyebrow. “Unless that’s too rich for your blood.”

“It’s fine.” Edwin enjoyed cards most of the time, especially since he rarely lost, but tonight he would be hard-pressed to keep his mind on the game.

They determined that Rathmoor would be dealer. With a grim expression, he shuffled the cards, his movements rigid. Perhaps Edwin should directly address the difficult issue between them before going on to more productive subjects.

“How is Jane?” Edwin hadn’t seen her since her wedding to Rathmoor several months ago, so it should be a perfectly acceptable question.

Given the way Rathmoor stiffened, perhaps not. “She’s well,” he clipped out and dealt each of them two cards.

Edwin examined his cards and did some quick mental calculations, then indicated he wanted another card. “I understand you’re renovating Rathmoor Park.”

Rathmoor’s gaze shot to him, still wary. “We are.”

The other two men both took another card as well.

Edwin chose to stand at nineteen. “I’m sure Jane will be a great asset in that endeavor. She has a keen sense of how to decorate effectively.”

Rathmoor softened a fraction. “She does indeed. How did you know?”

“After my father died and I wanted to redo the
town house, she made several helpful suggestions. Yvette was very grateful for the advice, since I had put her in charge of the furnishings.”

“Jane has a knack for such things.” Rathmoor examined his cards and chose to stand at seventeen. “She’s good at managing people.”

Fulkham asked for another card, and then chose to stand, too.

“She certainly is.” As they each turned their one facedown card over, it occurred to Edwin that Jane had tried to manage him from time to time, and he’d chafed at it. She’d gone about it so single-mindedly, much as his sister had always done.

But Clarissa teased and challenged him, which he found vastly more enjoyable. Living with Jane would probably have been more trying than he’d realized at the time. Rathmoor seemed happy enough with her, but that was because the man fancied himself “in love.”

At least Yvette was no longer trying to manage Edwin’s life. Though sometimes he missed that.

“Congratulations, Blakeborough,” Rathmoor said, “you win this one.”

“Hmm?” Edwin looked down to see he had turned up a two to go with his nineteen. Twenty-one.

Rathmoor had twenty, and Fulkham had gone bust.

But the baron didn’t seem perturbed by that, for he laughed. “Your mind is a million miles away, isn’t it?”

“Sorry.” Edwin swept the sovereigns to his side of the table. “I was woolgathering about my sister.”

“Surely you needn’t worry about her now that
she’s married.” Rathmoor sounded less uncomfortable than before as he picked up the cards and shuffled.

“No,” Edwin answered. “Keane is a good man. He’s proved to be far more reliable than rumor had led me to believe. And until he came along, she had to fight off scoundrels.” He slanted a glance at Fulkham. “Speaking of scoundrels, someone asked me about the Count Durand’s character.” That was almost true.

“The charge d’affaires?”

“Yes.” Edwin cut the cards for Rathmoor, who began to deal. “Have you heard anything about him? He seems quite the smooth-talking fellow.”

“That’s necessary for a man in the diplomatic profession,” Fulkham said.

“If he’s the charge d’affaires, shouldn’t he be intent on doing his duty by the ambassador and not running around courting women?” Edwin tapped for another card. “The person who wanted information about him was upset by his pursuit of a certain female relation.”

“Durand is a typical Frenchman, that’s all,” Rathmoor said dismissively. “Eloquent with the ladies. Rather like my half brother, who has just enough French in him to be dangerous.”

Edwin didn’t want to let the conversation wander into some tangent about Rathmoor’s relations. “But Durand hasn’t a reputation for, say, seducing gentlewomen, does he?” He figured both men would take the question in stride, since that
was
the purpose of the club, after all—to separate the wheat from the chaff regarding suitors.

“Not to my knowledge.” Fulkham tapped to demand
another card. “The man
is
unmarried, after all. He’s probably looking for a wife.”

“So he has no skeletons in his past,” Edwin persisted.

Rathmoor dealt another card to the baron. “It wouldn’t matter if he did. I suppose if he’d committed some indiscretion you could shame him in society with it, but that’s about all you could do.”