To Sin With A Scoundrel (20 page)

“Hmmm. This is becoming more interesting by the moment.” Her friend watched Hadley remove his coat and roll up his shirtsleeves.
“I have a feeling there is more to this affair than meets the eye.”

“Let us focus on the manuscript,” said Ciara quickly. “Its secrets are far more important than my private life.”

Alessandra took the bouquet and inhaled deeply. “
Cara,
far be it for me to lecture, but I have learned from experience that life’s mysteries cannot always be solved with reason.
Sometimes they unravel themselves in the most unpredictable ways.”

“Your advice is always welcome, Alessa.” She crooked a wry grimace. “Even when you are speaking in riddles.”

Her friend rang for a vase and then returned to the table. “Now, where were we?”

Ciara settled down to work, but despite her own words, she found it impossible to concentrate. The peals of light-hearted
laughter were distracting. As were the occasional glimpses of Hadley romping with the children. Peregrine looked so carefree,
swinging his new bat under the earl’s tutelage, and Isabella was not left out of the play. The sight of the broad-shouldered
rake showing the little girl how to hold the ball forced her to swallow a smile.

The summons for luncheon was a welcome interruption. Ciara called the children in from their game. Hadley followed, looking
boyishly disheveled with his cravat loosened and his hair ruffled by the breeze.

“Will you join us for some refreshment, Lord Hadley?” asked Alessandra.

“Thank you, Lady Giamatti. But I fear that I have already trespassed on Lady Sheffield’s hospitality too long.”

“On the contrary, sir,” said Ciara, managing a show of outward composure. “We would of course welcome your company.”

“Would you?” murmured Lucas, so that only she could hear. Dusting his trousers, which had several large grass stains on the
knees, he added in a louder voice, “Unfortunately, I’ve a previous engagement to meet some friends at Manton’s shooting gallery.”

“Well, then let us not keep you,” she answered quickly.

Lucas seemed amused by her wish to hurry him out the door. “I shall run—but will return this evening. I trust you have not
forgotten that we are scheduled to attend a recital at the Society of Sacred Music.”

“Good heavens, you really
are
a saint,” murmured Alessandra. “Their programs are exceeding boring.”

“So I have heard. However, the patroness is a very influential lady in Society, and her support will be of great help to Lady
Sheffield if her late husband’s family continues its campaign to steal away her son.”

“A saint, indeed, to endure several tedious hours of ancient hymns, for Ciara’s sake.”

Lucas flashed an angelic grin. “No, just a poor sinner doing penance for all my previous evil deeds.”

Mention of Peregrine’s peril sent a shiver down her spine, but Ciara did her best to cover her fear. “I trust you will be
on your best behavior tonight. That is, after all, part of our deal.”

“Of course.” Before she could draw away, he pressed a kiss to her hand. “Doing business with you is a pleasure, Lady Sheffield.
Just be sure to keep up your end of the bargain.”

F
eeling virtuous?” asked Lucas as the carriage set off into the swirling midnight mist.

“Feeling tired,” replied Ciara, leaning back against the seat and stifling a yawn. “You may be used to staying up until the
wee hours of dawn night after night, but I am not.” She gave a feline stretch of her legs. “You were right—the music was exceeding
boring, but at least we did not have to dance. Another waltz and I fear my toes might have fallen off.”

The flickering lamp cast a halo of light around her head. Against the midnight-dark shadows, the finespun curls falling around
her shoulders gleamed like burnished gold.

“Sore, are they?” he murmured, watching the flickering flame play over her lowered lashes.

“Mmmm, a steaming soak in scented water would feel like heaven.”

The tip of her evening slipper was resting against his shoe. On impulse, he reached down and took hold of her foot.

“Hadley!”
Her eyes flew open.

“Relax, sweetheart.” Lucas untied the ribbon and eased off the smooth satin.

“But—”

He began massaging her toes. “We could, of course, stop at the Berkeley Square fountain, but I assure you that the water is
quite frigid against bare skin.” Teasing his thumb across her arch, he said, “Perhaps this will serve as an acceptable alternative.”

Ciara tried to wiggle free. “It’s
not
acceptable,” she mumbled. “It’s… inappropriate.”

“Ah, but who will know except us?” Keeping a firm hold, he deepened the pressure of his strokes. “How does this feel?”

“Divine,” she said after a moment of hesitation. “Though I shouldn’t admit it.”

In the swirl of light and shadow, her expression looked achingly vulnerable. “Why not? There’s no sin in allowing yourself
to indulge in a little naughtiness once in a while.”

“That’s hardly a surprising sentiment, coming from you.” She tried to sound firm, but a tiny smile played at the corners of
her mouth. “You are, after all, an expert in sin.”

Lucas fingered the delicate texture of her stocking. “A connoisseur,” he agreed with a soft laugh.

Her hips twitched against the soft leather as she tried to jerk free.

“Stay still, Ciara,” he said. “Why not just”—he tickled the ball of her foot—“let yourself lie back and enjoy a little pleasure.”

“That would be wanton,” she whispered.

“And wicked,” he replied. “But haven’t you ever wanted to be a little wicked?”

No.
Yes!
No.

Ciara couldn’t find her voice to reply.

“I, on the other hand, have no compunction about indulging in wickedness.”

Rip.

The sound of tearing silk jolted her upright.
“Hadley!”
she gasped as he peeled her now-ruined stocking down to her ankle. The touch of night air against her now-bare skin was shockingly
intimate.

But not half so intimate as the flick of his tongue against her toes.

“Oh, that is… depraved,” she protested. But her wiggling proved too weak to break free his hold.

“Mmmm, yes.” He nibbled at her flesh. “But I am a rakehell scoundrel, remember?”

How could she possibly forget?

“And a rakehell scoundrel is wont to kiss a lady in all sorts of shocking places.”

Oh, Lud—was he really suckling her big toe?
The wet warmth of his mouth sent a surge of heat through every nook and crevasse of her body. The sensation somehow dissolved
every last bit of rational thought, for she heard herself blurt out, “Like the Grotto of Venus?”

As Lucas lifted his head, the fire-gold lantern flame danced along his smile. “Why, Lady Sheffield, have you been reading
more erotic books?”

“N-no,” she exclaimed with a guilty start.

“No?” He arched a brow. “I doubt you discovered that term in one of your scholarly textbooks.”

“If you must know, I—I overheard some ladies discussing your sexual prowess in the park,” she confessed.

“Did they sound satisfied?” asked Lucas slowly.

“Very.” She hesitated a fraction before adding, “Though I cannot imagine what they… implied.”

“A kiss to a lady’s quim?”

“Quim?” she repeated.

“It’s one of the terms that I prefer for that feminine spot.
Grotto of Venus
sounds a bit gothic, don’t you think? While
quim
reminds me of a sweet, ripe piece of fruit.”

Ciara squirmed, embarrassed and yet intrigued. “There are… other names?”

“Cunny, muff, notch, nick-nack, honeypot, pipkin,”
he recited slowly.

The wicked little words seemed to slide over her skin like melted butter.

“And simply,
paradise
. There are lots more, of course, but that should give you the idea.”

“Yes,” she replied, trying to repress the tingle running up her legs. “How very illuminating.”

“You see, there is much to learn outside the quiet confines of a library or laboratory,” murmured Lucas. “As for naughty kisses…”
A slow, sensuous lick traced the length of her sole. “Perhaps you simply need a little help in stimulating your imagination.”

As his hands caressed her ankle and then stole up her calf, she didn’t dare think about such erotic fantasies. Never in her
wildest dreams did she picture a man… and a woman…

Oh, surely that was wicked beyond words.

And yet. And yet, Ciara was suddenly aware that her foot was not the only part of her body growing moist.

She squeezed her thighs together to stop his roving touch. “Th-that’s far enough,” she said thickly.

His hands stilled on her knee. The lamp swayed, casting his face in darkness. After a moment, his voice drifted out from the
shadows.

“Very well.” Leaning back, Lucas smoothed her stocking down and slipped her shoe into its rightful place.

The satin felt oddly cold after his warmth.

Ciara sat up, just as the carriage came to a halt. Grateful that the low light hid her flaming face, she gathered her skirts.
“It appears that our evening has come to an end. I bid you good night, Lord Hadley.”

“Good night, Lady Sheffield.” As the coachman came around to the door, he added, “I hope that the lovely, virginal hymns we
heard will inspire sweet dreams.”

Lucas rose earlier than usual the next morning and rang for his shaving water.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” said his valet as he set down the basin and razor on the washstand. “Is there something else you
need?”

“Hmmm?” It took a moment to realize he was humming a passage from Handel’s
Messiah
. “No, no, that will be all, Humphrey. Please tell Cook I shall be down shortly for breakfast,” replied Lucas. “I shall dress
myself today.”

A long-suffering silence greeted the remark.

Lucas turned from the mirror, his jaw half covered in soap. “Is something amiss, Humphrey?”

“Aside from the shocking state of your wardrobe, sir?” The valet folded his hands across his chest. “Perhaps you would prefer
for me to hand in my resignation. It appears that you are unhappy with my services.”

“Are you crying over a stained sleeve?”

“Your best coat will never be quite the same, sir. And the dove gray trousers…” Humphrey shuddered. “They are utterly ruined.”

“So order another pair.” Lucas patted his face dry. “Hell, order a half dozen if it will wipe that scowl off your phiz.”

“Fashion is nothing to laugh about, milord. Allow me to point out that no one has ever dared criticize your clothing.”

“No, only my lack of it,” he quipped.

Humphrey sniffed.

Moving to the dressing room, Lucas picked out a navy jacket, buff breeches, and a pair of his most comfortable boots.

“Those are in need of a good buffing, sir,” said Humphrey, eyeing the scuffed leather with horror.

“Don’t bother. I’ll be walking through the muck at Tattersall’s,” said Lucas. He paused, brushing a hand to the boots. “Tell
me, did I have a pony when I was a small boy?”

“Yes, milord. Sir Henry gave you one for your seventh birthday.”

“I thought so.” He took a moment to knot his cravat. “Every boy ought to have a pony.”

“So long as he doesn’t try to ride it up the marble staircase of his great aunt’s mansion in Grosvenor Square,” said his valet.

“Aunt Prudence had no sense of humor, if I recall.”

Humphrey coughed. “Apparently not. You and the animal were banned from the premises for life.”

“I doubt Ajax went to his grave lamenting the loss. And nor shall I.” With that, Lucas slipped his pocket watch into his waistcoat
and went down for breakfast.

He was just digging into a plateful of shirred eggs and gammon when the door gave way to a shove.

“What are you doing, keeping country hours?” called Farnam.

“We expected to find you abed,” added Ingalls, his voice suspiciously slurred. By the look of their wrinkled clothing and
bleary faces, neither of the two men had slept the night before.

“Coffee?” asked Lucas, holding up the steaming pot. “Or kippered herring?”