To Sin With A Scoundrel (6 page)

She was surprised by the hint of pain in his voice. Was it possible that a devil-may-care rake might give a damn about someone
other than himself? “Do you share his interest in intellectual pursuits?”

“Not in the least. There are other, far more interesting things to pursue.” He said it with a smirk, but once again, it seemed
that the cynicism did not quite reach his eyes.

Don’t be a fool,
she chided herself. It was only a quirk of light that made him look rather sad.

“However, this means a great deal to him.” There was no mistaking the note of affection in his voice. “And so, I am willing
to do whatever it takes—even if it means going through walls—to make him happy. It is the least I can do to repay all his
kindness.”

She felt her initial animosity softening ever so slightly. “You speak as if you are very fond of him.”

He nodded. “I am. It cannot have been easy for a confirmed bachelor to find himself the guardian of a hellion adolescent.
Yet he tolerated my youthful follies with extraordinary patience and good humor.”

Ciara had assumed that Lord Hadley took nothing seriously, save his own pleasures. But as he looked to the windows, his profile
a stark silhouette against the glass, she felt a small prick of conscience. Had she cast his character in too harsh a light?
She, of all people, ought to know that the glare of public scrutiny often distorted the true picture.

“He sounds like a saint.” To mask her confusion, she began a careful perusal of the manuscript.

“As opposed to the devil of a nephew?”

She turned a page. Had he read her face so easily?

He seemed amused by her refusal to answer. Much as she tried to concentrate on the arcane Arabic letters, Ciara caught a quick
glimpse of his smile as he strolled to the workbench. After toying with a set of glass vials, he moved on to a tray of seedlings.

“You ought to know better than to touch anything in a laboratory,” she muttered, annoyed that she was allowing herself to
be distracted.

“It’s one of the reasons I would make a poor scientist.” He lifted a beaker to the light, nearly spilling its contents. “I
am constantly forgetting the rules.”

Her willingness to give him the benefit of the doubt quickly evaporated. “
Ignore
is more likely the precise word.”

“Ah, yes, you are an expert in languages, too.” The dratted man was far too fast with his hands. He once again had hold of
the erotic book and began thumbing through the pages. “Tell me, do you enjoy the nuances of the Venetian dialect?”

“What makes you think it’s written in Italian?”

“Contessa Francesca di Musto is a close friend. I’ve learned enough of the language from her to recognize—”

“I’m sorry I asked.” Ciara cut him off with a brusque snap and forced her attention back to the ancient handwriting.

He waited several moments before asking, “Well, what do you think?”

“A-about what?”
The audacity of the man!
Did he actually mean to provoke a discussion on the highly improper verses and pictures he was ogling? There was a perfectly
reasonable explanation for the book’s presence in her workroom. She had been doing a bit of research for “The Immutable Laws
of Male Logic” and had discovered that its text displayed a well-endowed sense of humor… to go along with its graphic illustrations.

The earl’s brow arched. “The manuscript, of course. What else would I be referring to?”

Ciara found herself blushing again.

His cough sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, but when he spoke it was in all seriousness. “Will you take on the task of
translating the text for Sir Henry?”

“I haven’t yet decided.” Reaching for her magnifying glass, she made a show of studying a small sketch in one of the margins.

To her chagrin, he resumed his wandering about her work area. It was impossible to concentrate, hearing the scuff of his boots,
the rustle of paper and rattle of glass. At the faint pop of a cork, she abandoned all pretext of examining the intricate
brushstrokes and spun around.

The earl was dabbing a bit of jade-colored oil on his wrist. “Essence of juniper,” he read from the label. “It’s rather nice—not
at all like a whiff of cheap gin.”

“Put that down!” Grabbing up a rag, Ciara rushed to his side. “It’s not meant to be used undiluted. It will burn right through
your flesh. Here, let me have a look.” She peeled back his cuff and set to wiping off every trace of green.

His hand had none of the softness expected of a fashionable fop but was strong and solid, the sinew and muscle well defined.
A scar cut across his knuckles, and a dusting of dark hair ran along his forearm. Turning it over, she saw the palm was callused,
as were the tips of his long fingers. Yet their touch was surprisingly gentle as they closed around her wrist.

Up close, he radiated a rampant masculinity, and against her will, she found herself thinking of all the naughty things she
had overheard in the park.

“I haven’t finished,” she murmured, hoping he didn’t hear the odd little catch in her voice.

“Neither have I.”

Ciara had every intention of pushing him away, but some strange alchemy kept her frozen in place. He kissed her lightly, the
brush of his lips feathering across her cheek. Suddenly she was no longer cold, but hot all over. Somewhere in her core a
flame licked up. Her flesh began to burn as his palms slid up her arms.

No. No. No.
This could not be happening.

Dazed, she opened her mouth to protest, only to find it captured in a far more intimate embrace. His tongue traced over her
lips, and his teeth nipped her flesh. Then he was inside her, tasting of salt, of smoke, and of some earthy spice she could
not put a name to.

Her attempt at speech came out as a wordless moan. It had been so long since she had been kissed. So long since she had been
desired. So long since she had felt this alive.

The earl deepened his teasing tempo of slow, swirling thrusts. Mindless of all else, she opened herself to his sinuous rhythm,
tentatively at first, then with increasing abandon.

Wicked, wicked.

The tantalizing touch and taste of him were suddenly withdrawn, and his mouth—still lush with heat—was tracing the line of
her jaw.

Ciara closed her eyes and gasped for breath.

“Heaven help me.” Was it a plea for strength? Or a signal of sinful surrender? She wasn’t sure she knew herself.

In response, he framed her face with his palms, and that terrible, tempting mouth was once again suckling the swell of her
lower lip. Gently, sweetly—as if such a thing were possible from a notorious libertine—his kisses fell like a soft summer
rain. On her chin, her cheeks, her brow.

Clutching at the solid, sloping slant of his shoulders, Ciara found herself melting, molding against his body.
Dear God.
Had every sensible bone in her body turned to putty? She knew she should summon the resolve to force him away. Yet as her
fingers curled, it was only to rake at his coat, digging for a deeper feel of every nuanced contour.

He stilled.

The awful truth was, she wanted him to keep kissing her. No matter that he was a practiced rake, a lustful libertine. She
was suddenly tired of having to be strong and sensible when inside she was feeling alone and frightened. And unwanted.

She had buried her need so deeply, she had thought it beyond reach. But in a matter of moments, the earl’s lithe hands had
stripped away her defenses, exposing that need to light and heat. No amount of scientific study had prepared her for the chemical
reaction. It was explosive.

“Dear God.” She said it aloud, finding her voice had the ragged pitch of a total stranger.

He looked up and slowly smiled. “Whatever potions you brew here are potent as sin,” he said rather thickly. The sandalwood
scent of his cologne was now mixed with an elemental essence of his own exertion. The effect was intensely erotic.

Her mouth quivered. “I-I cannot explain this alchemy.”

A sound—somewhere between a laugh and groan—tickled her earlobe. “Nor can I. But a man could die happily in its embrace.”

Ciara blushed. “It makes no sense when you… analyze the ingredients. We are too different…”

“I seem to recall hearing that opposites attract.”

That
must
be the answer. Otherwise, there was no way to explain the forces drawing them together. “Logical thought would—”

With a smooth, stroking touch, his finger stilled her lip. “Some things defy logic. Don’t think, just feel.”

She was acutely aware of the chiseled contours of his muscle. Oh, he felt wickedly good.

The earl’s whisper tickled her ear. “Sheffield was an even bigger fool than I thought,” he added. “To have sought his pleasure
elsewhere.”

The mention of her late husband saved her from surrendering completely to the madness of the moment.

As reason returned, she somehow summoned the strength to pull back. “Like most men, Sheffield lusted after what he did not
already have.”

His heavy-lidded eyes narrowed even more. “You think I planned to seduce you?”

Ciara didn’t know what to think. Or feel.

“And if I did, is that so very bad? It seems to me that you have experienced very little pleasure in your life.”

Confused, she sought release from the weight of his presence. “My personal life is none of your concern.”

He did not object as she pressed her fists to his chest and gave a little shove. His grip slipped away and he stepped back,
watching in silence as she smoothed her skirts.

The loss of his heat left a dull ache imprinted on her flesh.

“I—I must ask you to leave, Lord Hadley. And to take your papers with you.” Like her fingers, her voice was now stiff with
embarrassment. “I granted your wish—you have had the chance to state your desire.” She drew in a breath. “It was, to be sure,
an eloquent performance. But I have decided to say no to your request.”

His gaze turned opaque, his expression hardened, betraying no emotion save for a sardonic curl at the corners of his mouth.
“You have not yet heard the rest of the details about the manuscript.”

“Whatever they are, I am not interested.”

“Where is your sense of adventure, Lady Sheffield? I thought all scientists were excited by the possibility of new discoveries.”

Ciara looked away, appalled by her lapse in judgment. “It is not really my field of study,” she lied. “Your uncle will have
no trouble finding someone else.”

“He wanted you.”

Her hands fisted in the folds of her skirts. “Well, we all must learn to live with disappointment in our lives.”

The earl acknowledged his dismissal with a slow, mocking gesture at the row of instruments aligned on the table. “A strange
sentiment for someone who clearly has a passion for exploring the unknown.”

She bit at her lip, unwilling to admit the truth of his words.

“You may want to add an observation to your laboratory journal.” He retrieved his overcoat but made no move to pick up the
manuscript as he turned for the door. “Even the most carefully controlled experiments can have unpredictable results. I will
keep my word—for today. But be advised that you haven’t seen the last of me.”

D
ismissed.
Given his
congé
. Rather than dull the prick to his pride, Lucas found that the walk to White’s only honed his temper to a more dangerous
edge. Tossing his overcoat to a club porter, he stalked into the reading room and signaled for a bottle of brandy.

Lady Sheffield was right. He wasn’t used to taking no for an answer, especially from a female. He had become accustomed to
having the opposite sex beg for a favor, rather than the other way around.

Bloody hell.

Swearing under his breath, he slouched into one of the chairs by the hearth and stared at the dancing flames.

The tiny, teasing tongues seemed a mocking reflection of the heat still lingering in his limbs.
Hiss. Crackle. Snap.
Was there smoke coming out of his ears?

Two quick drinks finally cooled his fury. By the third, Lucas was in a more reflective mood. The fire-gold flickers now seemed
to sway in unison—wagging, scolding fingers of conscience.
Had he behaved badly with Lady Sheffield?
The urge to kiss her had been irresistible—and he wasn’t very good at self-discipline or denying himself what he wanted.

But intriguingly enough, despite her protests, she hadn’t been averse to his attentions. Indeed, her words had said one thing,
but her body had said quite another.

Lucas pursed his lips and set his glass down. An experienced rake should have no trouble charming an unworldly widow into
granting him a favor. However, to do so he would need another meeting. And by now Lady Sheffield had likely nailed every door
and window shut.

She was smart… so he would have to be exceedingly clever.

But no matter how hard he thought on it, his mind remained blank.

Damn.

He looked around, desperately searching for some familiar face to distract him from his dark musings. But none of his rakehell
friends were present—with his closest comrades-in-mayhem still rusticating in country, their ranks were a bit thin. The only
other person in the room was a sober, serious-looking gentleman who was reading the newspaper as he smoked a cheroot.

Lucas cleared his throat. Even stuffy Lord Brewster was better company than his own thoughts. “Any fresh news from Russia?”
he asked.

“General Kutusov may be old, fat, and blind in one eye, but it seems he has Boney in full retreat.” Brewster turned the page
with a low snort. “Now, if our navy can keep the French fleet bottled up, we may have a chance to end this interminable war.”

“Indeed,” murmured Lucas.

“Speaking of water…” The viscount cocked a bushy brow. “Thought you had sailed out of Town until the outrage over your latest
escapade had a chance to blow over.”

“A pressing family matter required my return,” he replied tersely.