To Seduce A Scoundrel Read online

  She looked up at him. A sconce on the terrace cast flickering light over the angular planes of his face. Long, dark lashes fringed deep brown eyes. The line of his nose was imperfect, a tad crooked, but it somehow looked right on him. A slightly dimpled chin supported sensuous lips she too-clearly recalled kissing her.

  He took her arm, and his touch was oddly comforting, considering he was a scoundrel. “Then let’s get you back to your carriage.”

  Despite his seemingly genuine assistance, she cautioned herself to be wary. She’d spent a lifetime avoiding scandal, and just because she was standing in the dead center of one didn’t mean she ought to throw all discretion aside. “You’re being very gallant. I’d heard you possessed no such consideration.”

  He tipped his head toward the light, which brought his good looks into greater focus. “I would tell you not to believe the salacious rumors you’ve been told about me, but, alas, they’re entirely true. Come, let’s get you home.”

  She peered up at him through the mask. “I can’t go back through there.”

  “Of course not. We’ll skirt the house.” He took her hand again. A pleasant, reassuring warmth stole through her glove and imbued her with a sense of security. He led her along the terrace and down a short flight of steps into the garden.

  After a moment he asked, “If there was no emergency, why did you follow your mother?”

  “She left Lady Kilmartin’s with a gentleman. They appeared,” she searched for the right word, “intimate.” She looked at the ground where her slippers squashed the damp earth. “I wanted to bring her home before she caused a scandal.”

  “You think her leaving a ball with someone other than her husband will cause a scandal?”

  Philippa paused and looked at him. “I’ve been raised—by her—to think so. You disagree?”

  He rolled a shoulder. “It’s not as if married women don’t have affairs.”

  Was he defending her mother or merely stating the obvious? “But how can she behave in such a manner while requiring me to comport myself above reproach?”

  His lips twisted into a faint smile. “Because life is full of double standards, especially for unmarried women.”

  “You’re right, of course.” She continued walking with him through the dark garden. Illumination from the torches on the distant terrace was feeble, but the path was easy enough to follow with a bit of help from a nearly full moon. “Mother’s timing, however, is quite poor. I’m supposed to be finding a husband. Her scandalous behavior could drive potential suitors away.”

  “Perhaps you needn’t worry. I’d heard your father had gone abroad to find you a husband. Surely none of them will be aware of your mother’s activities.”

  She cast him a quick glance, but he was eyeing the path. “It appears I am not the only one listening to rumors.”

  He laughed softly. “Touché.”

  “The rumors are not, however, completely false. While my father is abroad conducting business, he did threaten to bring a bridegroom home if I didn’t select one soon. He was disappointed when I didn’t marry the Earl of Saxton last fall.”

  Sevrin slowed his pace. “And why didn’t you? Marry him, I mean. Or anyone else, for that matter?”

  She bristled. He might as well have asked her outright if she was settling herself comfortably on the shelf. In this, her fifth season, she’d heard more than one matron musing about her marital prospects. Though she was still young enough, handsome enough, wealthy enough, her failure to accept a marriage proposal—and there had been several—was beginning to erode her standing as one of Society’s most sought-after misses. Which was why she’d hoped her courtship with Saxton last fall would have led somewhere. He’d been the first gentleman who’d sought to court her without falling at her feet with flowery platitudes or overwrought declarations of devotion. The first gentleman to whom she might’ve said yes.

  Now, recalling her aborted suit with Saxton, she quashed a niggling sense of disappointment. “He never actually asked me.” The Times had misprinted news of their engagement, and to protect her reputation—at Saxton’s insistence—she and Saxton had put it out that she’d refused his proposal.

  “I know.”

  She stopped abruptly. Only she and Saxton had known the truth. Or so she’d thought. “How?”

  His mouth curved up in a reassuring smile as his thumb stroked her knuckles. “Saxton and I are friends. Don’t worry he told anyone else—he didn’t. And the secret is quite safe with me.”

  She had to believe he was sincere. If not, he surely would have spread the gossip ages ago. “Thank you.”

  He tugged lightly on her hand, and they moved along the path. “Were you disappointed?”

  “That we didn’t suit? Yes, but I had the sense his heart was engaged elsewhere. Why aren’t you married?” She cringed. In her haste to direct the conversation at him, she’d come dangerously close to the root of his notoriety.

  “I’d make a terrible husband.”

  And then, because as long as he knew one of her secrets she ought to be privy to one of his, she went ahead and asked, “Is that why you didn’t marry that girl?”

  If he was offended by her question, he didn’t show it. “Would you believe me if I told you she didn’t want to marry me?”

  Philippa thought for a moment. For a sinful rogue, he was charmingly honest and solicitous. “I don’t see a reason not to.”

  He barked out a laugh. “You’d be the first.”

  She smiled, enjoying their conversation far more than she ought. He was, after all, an utter reprobate. “The first who believed you, or the first you told?”

  Sevrin stopped at a five-foot tall stone wall that edged the yard. He let go of her hand and gave her a half-smile. “You’re cheekier than I might’ve imagined.”

  She couldn’t argue with his assessment. Tonight she’d strayed far outside her normal boundaries. If anyone saw her now, she’d be quite thoroughly and incontrovertibly ruined. And while the thought made her a trifle queasy, the sensation was surprisingly overridden by the excitement of Sevrin’s company.

  She suffered a moment of alarm—why was this exciting? Because it was forbidden? Because it was Sevrin? This escapade shouldn’t be exciting at all, but with no one here to witness her inappropriate reaction, perhaps she could finally relax her guard. Why not? Her mother certainly had.

  The mask drooped again, and she pulled it off, dislodging a lock of hair. The curl grazed her shoulder and sent a tickle along her arm. She brushed at the sensation and then offered him back the mask. “I don’t think I need this anymore.”

  “Keep it,” he said. “You never know. An alley runs between Lockwood House and the building next door. We’ll take it through to the street. I’m going to lift you up to sit on the wall then I’ll climb over and help you down the other side. Are you ready?”

  She nodded. Although she expected his touch, she still jumped when his hands came around her waist. “I’m a bit ticklish.”

  “Lovely,” he murmured. The sound, dark and rich, permeated every inch of her. She willed her body to remain unaffected the next time he touched her. Warm hands spanned her waist then lifted her. She held her arms up to grab the top of the wall and bit back a gasp as Sevrin’s hands scooped her bottom and raised her higher. She pulled herself atop the stone and watched as Sevrin vaulted the wall with ease.

  He reached up and clasped the tops of her hips. She burned where he touched her. When she was on the ground, his hands were gone far too quickly.

  “This way.” He led her into the dark alley stretching between Lockwood House and the building next door.

  They were halfway to the street when two men stepped from the shadows.

  The shorter of the two spread his lips in a malevolent grin. “Here’s our lad.”

  Sevrin shoved her behind him and then her scandalous, yet shockingly pleasant evening went completely to the devil.

  Chapter Two

  AMBROSE Sevrin was no stranger
to violence. Indeed, his blood heated at the prospect of a fight.

  With Lady Philippa tucked safely behind him, he addressed their attackers. “What do you want?”

  The shorter, stockier footpad—for what else could they be?—stepped forward. “Ye’re the ‘Vicious Viscount’, aren’t ye?”

  Son of a bitch. Anyone asking after him by that name wanted nothing good. Or legal.

  He felt Lady Philippa’s shallow breaths on the back of his neck. “Not anymore.”

  The shorter, stockier of the two men shrugged and wiped his hand across his nose. “Don’t matter none to me what ye call yerself. Jagger wants ye so ye’ll be coming with us.”

  Who the hell was Jagger? “No, I won’t.”

  The miscreant curled his lip. “I weren’t asking.” He glanced toward his taller cohort and inclined his head toward Ambrose.

  Ambrose tipped his head to the side, but didn’t take his eyes from the now-advancing criminals. “Philippa, go back to the house.”

  He pushed her behind him, his gaze never leaving the two men. The taller one—a massive brute—advanced. Ambrose quickly shed his gloves and threw them to the ground. He lunged forward with fists flying. The first landed squarely against the man’s nose, but the second only grazed his jaw.

  The bastard was quick for someone so massively built. He retaliated with two fast punches. Ambrose took one to the shoulder, but sidestepped the other.

  Ambrose sent three rapid strikes to his opponent’s torso and face, but his clothing constricted his movements. He longed to shed his coat, his shirt, everything until he was barefooted and bare-chested, just like at his fighting club where routine bouts fed his primal need for violence.

  The man answered with a swift, brutal cut to the back of Ambrose’s neck. A rabbit punch, illegal in boxing, but expected in a fight such as this. He ground his teeth and launched himself forward, repeatedly sending his fists into the miscreant’s face.

  Ambrose split the skin beneath his opponent’s eye. The man grunted. The seam of Ambrose’s coat tore over his right shoulder.

  Dancing backward, Ambrose ripped his coat off in quick, ungainly jerks. The buttons went bouncing over the cobblestones. His opponent took the advantage and advanced with two great strides. He ducked low and grabbed Ambrose around the waist.

  Ambrose registered a feminine shriek. He turned his head in Philippa’s direction. Christ, he’d all but forgotten his presence in the thrill of the fight. The stocky criminal had cornered her against the side of the house. Ambrose’s split-second distraction was more than enough for his adversary to make his move.

  With Ambrose clasped in his arms, he leaned close to Ambrose’s chest. He brought his head up, striking Ambrose square beneath the chin. Ambrose bit his lip and the metallic flavor of blood filled his mouth. His opponent shoved him back onto the cobblestones, but let go before he fell, too.

  Ambrose’s back hit the street. The impact knocked the wind from him, but he dug for the energy to roll to the side and miss the man’s kick.

  Stupid, amateur mistake, but then Ambrose’s attention had never been siphoned from a fight. He was always completely in the moment. The fight was everything.

  He glanced over at Philippa. The other criminal was upon her. Ambrose heard the distinct sound of fabric ripping. He’d kill the prick.

  Ambrose leapt to his feet and sprinted at the man. With a growl, he grabbed the villain around his middle and threw him to the ground. The thud of his head hitting the cobblestones resonated in the alley.

  Ambrose didn’t spare him a glance as he turned his attention to Philippa. She stood quaking, her bodice gaping open.

  “Are you all right?” He rushed toward her, but was jerked to a stop by the other criminal—the one he’d just left in his furious dash to save Philippa—grabbing his arm and pulling him off balance. Ambrose stumbled over the man lying on the ground as the brute delivered two hard punches to his lower back.

  The brute didn’t give Ambrose any time to collect himself, not that he expected it. He dodged to the left, escaping the man’s meaty fists. Then he sent a merciless series of punches to the man’s face. Ambrose’s knuckles split. Warm pain blossomed in his hands.

  He continued his assault. The man grabbed his waist and wrestled him to the ground. Ambrose rolled on top of the criminal. He landed blow after blow until his lip split and blood ran from his nose.

  A piercing scream interrupted Ambrose’s beating of the criminal. He stopped in mid-punch. His gaze found Philippa kneeling next to her attacker, but the man wasn’t down any longer. He was on his knees and had raised his hand. The blade of a knife flashed in the light of the street lantern.

  For the first time in five long years, Ambrose felt fear.

  He leapt off his brute of an opponent and dashed toward them. He kicked the man in his ribs. With a loud grunt, the criminal crumpled and let go of Philippa. His knife clattered on the cobblestones. The criminal reached for the weapon. Ambrose kicked the man again, then toed the knife out of reach, and moved in front of Philippa.

  The man Ambrose had left—the brute—advanced. While Ambrose would have loved to beat him into the cobblestones, getting Philippa to safety had to be his primary objective, not winning a fight.

  He grabbed her hand and hauled her back the way they’d come. They reached the stone wall and he belatedly, stupidly realized she couldn’t have scaled it on her own. He hoisted her up with one fluid movement.

  With a quick glance down the alley, he saw the larger man bending over his cohort. Satisfied the man wasn’t directly on their heels, Ambrose vaulted the wall then grasped her waist. His gaze was drawn to ruddy streaks along her skirt.

  “Is that blood?” he asked, panic rising in his throat. “Are you all right?” He gently pulled her down from the wall but didn’t let go of her.

  She nodded, dazedly.

  “Yes, it’s blood or yes, you’re all right?”

  “Both. I want it off. Please.” She tugged at her gloves, which were covered in blood. Ambrose finally registered the sticky, wet substance on his own hands.

  She dropped the ruined gloves to the ground. Ambrose picked them up, but had no coat pocket to stuff them in since he’d left the garment out on the street. He’d dispose of them inside, in a fire if possible. “Come, let’s get you into the house.”

  She stared up at him. “I can’t go back there.” Her voice was soft, tremulous.

  He tugged her away from the wall, along the dark path toward the house. He cast a furtive glance behind them, but doubted the criminals would follow them into the garden and certainly not into the house.

  He paused a moment to catch his breath. “We can’t go back that way.” In the dim light, he eyed her torn bodice. He grasped one edge. “Here, hold this up. We’ll go in through the scullery.”

  Her eyes were wide, scared. “And then what?”

  “There are gowns inside. We’ll get you a new dress and get out another way.” He eyed the streaks of blood on the lower part of her skirt. “If you’re not hurt, is all of that blood his?”

  She nodded. “When he fell, he hit his head. He seemed to be unconscious, but then he began to moan and ask for help. I knelt and used my skirt to dab at the cut on his head. It was bleeding terribly.” Her voice quavered. “Then he grabbed me. He had a knife.” She pressed her bodice more tightly against her chest, and he saw that blood had seeped through her gloves to stain her hands.

  He cringed, hating what he’d allowed to happen to her. Hating himself. “Will you come?”

  She nodded again and walked beside him while he scanned the back of the house for a servant’s entrance. They passed beneath the terrace from whence came muted sounds of conversation and laughter. Finally, when they reached the other corner, there was a staircase leading down to the scullery.

  Ambrose led the way, hoping they could sneak in unnoticed. He paused at the door and slowly eased it open. The scullery was empty save a cat curled up on a rug near the fireplace. Its e
ars pricked as he entered, but other than that the animal didn’t stir. He turned back and gestured for Philippa to follow.

  She stepped inside and the firelight accentuated her pallor. And the blood caking her skirt. And the deep shivers wracking her frame. Another sharp stab of self-loathing.

  He glanced around the scullery in search of a basin of water. Finding nothing, he went into the next room, the main kitchen, where two retainers were working. He spied a basin of water on a table in the corner.

  His understanding was that guests at Lockwood House could request the private use of any room at any time. “Good evening,” he said, “I need this room for a few minutes.”

  The retainers merely nodded and left. He turned back toward the scullery. “There’s water in here.”

  Philippa came in, almost silently, her feet scarcely making a sound against the floor.

  “It’s likely cold,” he said, but she had already submerged her blood-dappled hand. Ambrose found a cake of soap and gave it to her. She scrubbed mercilessly for at least a minute, the water turning a murky rust color as she worked.

  Finally, she raised her hands. Ambrose searched for something with which she could dry them. His eyes lit on a scrap of toweling hanging from a hook. He crossed the room and grabbed it, then froze upon seeing a girl sleeping in the corner. She’d been hidden by a large worktable.

  Lightly, he made his way back to Philippa. He handed her the towel then put his finger to his lips and gestured toward the sleeping girl.

  The kitchen fire was low, but he tossed her ruined gloves on top of it anyway and poked them into the coals. They caught and burned.

  He went to the basin and cleaned the blood off his hand. His injured knuckles burned as he scrubbed the abraded flesh. He contemplated their next move.

  Lockwood House kept a large stock of gowns and other items of clothing. Guests often arrived here after attending other, more acceptable engagements and had need of altering their appearance. They were given cloaks to wear until they donned new costumes in one of Lockwood’s dressing chambers.