To Sin With A Scoundrel (10 page)

The earl took a lazy turn in front of the hearth and then leaned back against the marble mantel. “What shall I do with my
time, then, if I am not allowed to cavort and carouse?” he asked. “Try to improve my mind?”

“Why not?” she replied impulsively. “If I must subject myself to frivolous balls and parties, you, in turn, should have to
expose yourself to my world. Not that it is likely a rakehell rogue will
ever
comprehend the first thing about logic and discipline.”

“Is that a
challenge,
madam?” he said softly.

“Yes,” snapped Ciara, her patience dangerously frayed. “Put it in the blasted betting book at White’s.” She paused to think.
“The Wicked Witch wagers Lord H that he cannot complete a basic course in… chemistry.” She paused for breath. “No, that’s
too unfair—make it ornithology, a far simpler subject for a layman to grasp.”

Lucas didn’t respond for a moment. “Done,” he said softly. “I accept your wager, but we shall, for the sake of propriety,
not record it at any club. It will be a more private accounting.”

Ciara felt a flare of heat prickle along her arms. Oh, Lord, had she just made a dreadful mistake? If there was one thing
a man couldn’t tolerate, it was a jab at his pride. But she couldn’t very well back out now. She, too, had her own unyielding
pride.

“The thing is,” he continued, “a wager needs a prize. And a penalty. Tell me, Lady Sheffield, what are you willing to forfeit
if you lose?”

“I have no intention of losing,” she replied.

“Am I misinformed, or is a scientist expected not to have preconceived ideas about the outcome of an experiment?”

She thinned her lips. “Very well, Lord Hadley. Name the stakes.”

“If I win, you must grant me one wish.”

“Too vague,” she objected. “I’d be a fool to agree.”

“What’s the worry? I thought you didn’t intend to lose.”

Damn the rogue.
For a man who claimed to have no interest in intellectual pursuits, he was awfully clever with his tongue…

Ciara felt herself flush as she recalled Lady Annabelle’s risqué comments about Hadley’s sinful mouth and the taste of its
naughty pleasures. Looking up, she saw he was smiling. The crescent curve of his lips showed a peek of pearly white teeth.

“So, you wish for me to be specific? Very well.” He paused. “If I win, you must submit to a kiss.”

“I suppose that I can agree to that—” she began.

“Wait. I haven’t finished.” Smoothing a crease on his trousers, he added, “To be bestowed on a place of my choosing.”

“Th-that’s… outrageous,” she whispered.

“Is it?” His gaze drifted ever so slowly over her body, as if peeling the layers of silk and cotton from her flesh. “There
are, you know, so many exquisitely sensitive parts of the female body—it’s devilishly difficult to decide on just one.”

She gave an involuntary gasp.

“I could suckle one rosy red nipple,” he said in a smoky murmur. “Then again, I could feather my lips over the dimpled little
button of your belly.” His voice dropped a notch. “Or I could delve even lower.”

Sure that her face was on fire, Ciara looked away, hoping to hide her reaction. His words were titillating, but she didn’t
wish to admit it. “The decision is yours, sir. It makes no difference to me.”

His husky laugh teased against her flesh. “Ah, but it should. You, too, have much to learn.”

Seeking to deflect his attention, she demanded, “What do
I
win?”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing you can give me,” replied Ciara, ruing the tightness that took hold of her throat.

“Don’t be so sure,” said Lucas.

A tiny trickle of sweat tickled along the crevasse between her breasts.

“Think hard—is there really nothing you want from me?”

She didn’t trust herself to speak.

“No need to reply right now.” With a lazy flick of his finger, he straightened the folds of his cravat. “I am willing to let
you defer your choice of spoils for victory until a later time.”

“That’s taking a chance, sir.”

“As you know, I am not afraid of taking chances.” He stepped closer, and she was acutely aware of his heat, his scent—sandalwood,
tobacco, and a mysterious musk that was dark and dangerously male.

Quelling the odd little quiver of her insides, Ciara managed to regain her composure. “Some would call that arrogance, Lord
Hadley.”

“I prefer to think of it as confidence. I have a good deal of experience in beating the odds.”

“I am glad to hear it. We are going to need a good deal of luck to get through the next few weeks.”

“There is an old English adage, Lady Sheffield. Luck is the residue of desire.”

S
anta cielo
, I go away for a fortnight, and look what happens! All hell breaks loose.” Alessandra della Giamatti cut a small slice from
the pear on her plate. “And here I thought I was doing you a favor, taking the little devils with me.”

Ciara tore her gaze away from the two children, who were chasing butterflies in the garden. “I swear, I did not go looking
for trouble. Trouble came looking for me.”

“At least Trouble is handsome as sin,” quipped her friend.

“That is entirely beside the point,” she exclaimed, dismayed that her voice sounded so brittle. “I have absolutely no interest
in the rogue, other than to make use of his connections in Society.”

Alessandra arched her elegant brows. “A more intimate connection might make the interlude more enjoyable, no?”

“No!”

Her friend nibbled at the fruit. “Have you something against the man that I don’t know about? It’s hard to find fault with
his physical appearance.”

“He’s far too…” Ciara faltered.

“Too what?” asked Alessandra.

“Too different.”
Too dangerous.

“You know, there is a scientific theorem…” began her friend.

“Please—not you, too!” muttered Ciara. “I had hoped that you, of all people, would understand.”

The marchesa was the most worldly of all her friends. A poised, polished Renaissance beauty—her ethereal face had inspired
several ardent admirers to compare her to Botticelli’s painting
Mars and Venus
—Alessandra had arrived in England a year ago, seeking reconciliation with her mother’s estranged family. Their acknowledgment,
however lukewarm, had elevated her into the highest circles of London Society. She attended the balls and soirées on occasion,
but for the most part she had settled into a quiet life, dividing her time between scholarly studies and her daughter.

Ciara slanted a sidelong look at Isabella and Peregrine at play. A fortuitous meeting at a Royal Scientific Society chemistry
lecture had revealed that they both were mothers to energetic eight-year-olds. But the bond between them had quickly grown
deeper than shared advice on skinned knees and sore throats. Along with her intellect, Alessandra possessed an incisive eye
for judging character and a sardonic sense of humor.

A sigh escaped from her lips.

“I do understand,
bella,
more than you know,” replied Alessandra with a graceful wave of her hand. Glimmers of gold and green sparkled as her ornate
emerald ring caught the sunlight. “I was merely trying to tease the lines of worry from your face.”

Her smile was equally brilliant, but Ciara knew there was also a dark side to her friend. Alessandra was very private about
her personal past and spoke very little about her life in Italy. As for the reasons why she had chosen to leave the country,
aside from a dark hint or two, they remained shrouded in mystery.
Sins and secrets
. Yet another bond between them.

“Would that I could laugh them off.” Ciara forced a self-mocking grimace. “But to be honest, I’m beginning to think I have
made a grave mistake. Tomorrow—tomorrow!—I must swathe myself in silk and appear in Society as if I hadn’t a care in the world.”
She had not yet mentioned the wager to her friend. “I… I am not sure I can carry it off.”

“Of course you can. And you won’t be alone. I am so sorry I cannot be there for you, but Hadley will offer moral support and
an arm to lean on.”

“Ha,” muttered Ciara. “More likely he’ll be off in some dark corner, trying to put his hand up some lady’s skirts.”

“I grant you, his reputation doesn’t inspire much confidence. And yet, I have heard…” Alessandra hesitated and then shrugged.
“But you must judge for yourself.”

She wasn’t sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved that her friend did not finish her words. Unwilling to appear in
any way curious about the earl, she didn’t pursue the subject. Now, if only the rogue and his wicked wager would stop plaguing
her thoughts.

Risk and reward.
Such challenges excited a gambler’s nature. However, for her they held no allure. Ciara knew herself too well—she was, by
temperament, steady and serious. Disciplined and decisive.

So why was she feeling so uncertain about… everything?

“A penny for your thoughts?” murmured Alessandra.

“You would be making a bad bargain,” she replied with a rueful grimace.

Alessandra sat in silence, slowly curling a lock of her raven hair around her finger.

“Besides, I’m not quite sure I could express them in any coherent order,” she added.

“Sometimes it helps to simply talk,
cara
.”

Ciara refrained from pointing out that was rather like the pot calling the kettle black. Instead she asked, “If you had been
at our meeting, what would you have advised me to do?”

The hesitation was barely perceptible. “To follow your heart,” said Alessandra.

“Good Lord!” The answer took her completely by surprise. “You are the most pragmatic, practical person I know! Never in a
thousand years would I have guessed that you are a secret romantic!”

The reflections from the mullioned glass formed flickering patterns of sun and shadow across her friend’s face. “Romance has
nothing to do with it. What I meant was, sometimes one has to rely on instinct rather than intellect. This is true even in
science,
si?
”

“I—I suppose I see your point.” But instead of casting any light on her quandaries, Alessandra’s words of wisdom only muddled
her mood. “Kate said much the same thing to me as we were leaving our weekly meeting.”

“I am not surprised. I suspect that the three of us share more than an interest in science.” Alessandra did not elaborate
but returned to her earlier comment. “Mind you, I am only suggesting—”

A cry from the garden cut short the exchange.

Both mothers shot up out of their chairs as Peregrine dropped to the ground with a thump. Ciara was first through the French
doors, with Alessandra a scant half step behind.

“Girls!” Peregrine blinked back tears as she smoothed the tangle of curls from his forehead. A lump the size of a goose egg
was already forming smack between his eyes. “Why can’t they ever learn to throw a ball straight?”

“It slipped.” Alessandra’s daughter, Isabella, leaned in for a closer look. “Ewwww, it’s turning a really horrid shade of
purple, Perry. Why didn’t you duck?”

“Because you were supposed to be aiming at the wicket. Which was near my feet, not my head, nitwit.”

Isabella’s lips quivered. “Cricket is a stupid game.”

“So is playing with your silly dolls. But
I
don’t cosh you over the head with them.”

Sniff.
The little girl’s eyes started to water. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Of course you didn’t,” soothed her mother.

“No harm done,” said Ciara, hugging her son close. “A cold compress and some jam tarts will soon make everything right.”

“I think I should take Isabella home.” Alessandra made a wry face over the top of her daughter’s head. “Before bruised feelings
turn truly ugly.”

The children were usually perfect playmates, but the journey home from Bath had been a long one, due to the rains, and even
the best of friends could grow tired of each other’s company.

“Perhaps that’s a wise idea,” agreed Ciara. It seemed her blue-deviled mood was rubbing off on everyone around her.

“Ciao, tesoro.”
Alessandra kissed Peregrine, then Ciara. “I look forward to hearing all about tomorrow’s ball at our next meeting.”

Her current sentiments on the subject were best left unsaid.

Gathering her son in her arms, Ciara accompanied her friend to the front door and then sought the soothing sanctuary of the
kitchen. The sweet smells of melting sugar and cinnamon immediately enveloped them in a buttery warmth. So, too, did Cook,
who dusted the flour from her yeasty hands and quickly set a pan of milk to heat on the hob.

Ciara bit her lip as she watched the elderly woman fuss over Peregrine’s bruised forehead. It suddenly struck her that her
son was surrounded by females. The only men of the household were the butler McCabe and Jeremiah the footman—and neither was
a day under seventy. It couldn’t be good for a boy to grow up without a strong male influence in his life. She didn’t want
him to be cosseted and petted until he became a spoiled brat. Suffering a few scrapes was all part of life. He must learn
to take his lumps and laugh them off.

Not that Sheffield would have made an ideal role model. Ciara repressed a shudder. A drunken wastrel with a hair-trigger temper
was hardly an example to emulate. She knew that her late husband wasn’t all that different from many aristocratic fathers.
But she wished for something more for Peregrine.

Warmth. Laughter.
Love
.

She had no illusions that he would get any of those things from Sheffield’s family. The only reason they were trying to gain
guardianship of the boy was on account of his money and his lands.

Fear froze her throat, and for a moment she couldn’t swallow. As Peregrine smiled and bit into one of the freshly baked pastries,
she turned away, hoping to hide her worries. Lud, she was really in no mood for making a reentry into Society. Amid the gaiety
and glitter of the evening, she would be like… a fish out of water. Especially if Hadley chose to plunge headlong into some
new scandal.