Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3) Read online

  She supposed it was to be expected. He was approaching his seventieth year. Long past the time when he ought to have a regular hearth, complete with slippers and pipe, instead of their gypsy existence.

  It was wearing on her soul as well. As she wandered Lord Devonwood’s elegant rooms, she wondered what it must be like to have servants to shine one’s shoes and mend one’s socks; only to ring a bellpull to have a tray of food magically appear.

  More than that, the luxury of permanence called to her. Since they’d begun traveling, she despaired of ever being able to put down roots again. To know where she’d sleep each night would be such a gift. To make a genuine friend rather than regarding every chance acquaintance as a potential mark, a blessing beyond compare.

  To have a husband and children of her own.

  If she accepted Theodore’s suit, would she finally be able to have a proper home?

  She doubted it.

  Even though the countess had been kind, Emma had detected a hesitation behind her smile. And why not? The aristocracy did not suffer an invasion of the rabble gladly. There was every chance Teddy’s family would cut him off if he married her. It wouldn’t improve Monty’s situation one jot if they suddenly had to provide a living for Theodore as well.

  She wound through the dining room and a sitting room, then through a long hall tiled in deep blue squares in the style of Arabia. A fountain burbled in a sweet-smelling orangery. She peeked into a stiffly formal parlor designed for receiving callers. The rooms were all beautifully appointed in delicate French style. Genuine objets d’art were tastefully and sparingly displayed instead of crowding every horizontal space with endless bric-a-brac.

  But all the rooms’ curtains were drawn.

  If she were prone to flights of fancy, she’d imagine one of Polidori’s vampyres lurked in Devonwood House, slinking through the shadows away from direct sunlight. But when she opened the final door on the ground floor, she forgot all about vampyres. The chamber beyond made her breath catch.

  It was a library to rival any she’d ever seen, even though it was dimly lit. As with the rest of the house, someone had drawn the shutters and set the gas sconces to flicker at their lowest level. Shelves of books stretched from the floor to the ceiling soaring twenty feet above. A wrought iron catwalk circled the room at half that height, accessible only by a small spiral staircase in one corner.

  The ceiling had been painted in the rococo style, every square inch decorated with flowers and nymphs and dryads. An oval in the center was dedicated to a fresco of Cupid waking Psyche from her charmed slumber with a kiss. The simple sweetness of that captured moment, so potent with promise, made Emmaline’s chest constrict with nameless longing.

  She walked forward, her gaze transfixed on the ceiling. The beauty made her eyes ache.

  What must it be like to be surrounded by such opulence, such incredible riches all the time?

  Then a rumbling male voice came from a corner of the room, interrupting her thoughts. “Miss Farnsworth, are you having a religious experience?”

  Devon had seen such openmouthed wonder only on depictions of saints in rapture. Or, now that he thought about it, on the face of a woman in the throes of sensual ecstasy.

  He judged the second as far more likely in Miss Farnsworth’s case. She was much too opinionated to qualify for sainthood.

  After luncheon, Devon had retreated to his chamber to try to sleep away his headache, but after tossing on his bed for the better part of an hour, he finally took refuge in the dimly lit library. Baxter was sensitive enough to his moods to know when a migraine had descended and Devon must avoid bright light. Now he was seized by the wish that the heavy shutters were thrown back so he could further dazzle Miss Farnsworth with the majesty of his library.

  “No, I wouldn’t classify this moment as religious, milord,” she said breathlessly, flicking her gaze to him before returning her stare to the ceiling. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

  “Would it matter to you if you were?”

  Her lips turned inward for a moment and then she shot a quick grin in his direction before tipping her chin up to admire his ceiling again. “Probably not. This is far too grand a place to regret seeing, even at the risk of disturbing my host.”

  “And you believe regret is a waste of time. However, you are my brother’s guest, not mine,” Devon said, still lounging in his favorite overstuffed chair. “But as long as you’re already here, I may as well welcome you to my inner sanctum.”

  “A lady might catch her death from the chill of your welcome.” She tossed him a pointed look.

  He knew he ought to stand when a lady entered a room, but whether Miss Farnsworth was, in fact, a lady was open to question. Besides, he really didn’t want to be alone with her. If he was rude enough, she might leave. “Are you suggesting I should stand simply because you invaded my library without invitation?”

  “No, if your manners require my prompting, the fact that you became suddenly upright would have no meaning.” Her lips curled in a small grimace. “It’s obvious you have little respect for me.”

  “As it’s obvious you have little respect for my privacy,” he said. “You occupied my garden earlier. Now you feel the need to skulk about my library. Turning up unexpectedly is becoming habitual for you.”

  “I am not skulking.” Her eyes flashed and Devon decided her face flushed most becomingly when she was irritated. “Neither should my presence be unexpected. We were invited to stay in your home, milord. If you require your houseguests to remain confined to their chambers, perhaps you should bolt their doors.”

  “No one consulted me about your accommodations or I might have suggested it.” A retort about regretting that dungeons had fallen out of fashion danced on his tongue, but he bit it back. “I had little choice in the matter.”

  “I find it difficult to believe you are ever without choice, your lordship.”

  She did a slow turn so she could take in the entire sweep of the room. Her movements were graceful and drew his eye to the supple lines and curves of her figure. He wished she weren’t so comely. Maybe then he wouldn’t be fighting the urge to gather her close, crowd her against the bookcase, and lift her skirts.

  “Your inner sanctum, you called it,” she said as she turned back to admire the contents of the bookshelves. “Are you certain you’re not the one with a religious bent?”

  Devon’s thoughts were running more on the idolatrous side at the moment. The kiss in his vision burst back into his mind with such vibrant clarity, his body tried to persuade him that worshipping Miss Farnsworth’s delectable form would indeed be a fine way to spend the afternoon. His headache dimmed a bit. He’d cut off his vision before he’d unbuttoned her bodice, but his imagination was pleased to fill in the gap.

  If only his brother weren’t besotted with her.

  He snorted with irritation and tried to forget the thoroughly kissable Miss Farnsworth in his vision. Sensual and responsive, the miss in his fantasy bore little resemblance to the real one, who seemed more interested in the stacks of books than in him. It ought to be easy to separate the two in his mind.

  Less easy for his body, evidently. He shifted in his seat and the throb at his temples resumed.

  “So, you’re not the religious sort,” she answered for him. “But you can’t deny this room inspires reverence. Yes, that’s as good a way of describing it as anything.”

  “Reverence for what?” he asked with a huff. If he could sustain annoyance, it would be easier to resist the pull he felt toward her. “There’s no cause. It’s only a collection of books, after all.”

  “Oh, milord.” She cast him a look laced with pity and shook her head. “Rich as Croesus, but totally unaware of your bounty. Your home has become so commonplace to you, you can’t see how magnificent it all is.”

  By thunder, no man would dare speak to him so. “Use is everything, they do say. This is the manner of living to which I’m accustomed. If I fail to be overwhelmed by it daily, I
do not consider it a flaw in my character.”

  He supposed he should be grateful. She’d effectively squashed all his lustful feelings toward her by giving him reason to stay annoyed.

  “It’s not just the art and architecture, though that alone would be staggering,” Miss Farnsworth said. “The real treasure is all the minds converged in one place.”

  “Minds? What do you mean?” He wondered if the girl was a bit balmy.

  “In the books, of course. The thoughts of great men, and great women, too, I hope. Why, they’re fairly buzzing on the shelves.” Her dark eyes snapped with genuine pleasure. “Can’t you hear them?”

  Minds on the bookshelves. He’d never considered his library thus, but the fanciful image made sense and in some strange way seemed to lessen the grip of his migraine. Devon smiled, despite his determination to remain irritated with her. “Now that you mention it, yes, I believe I do hear a faint hum.”

  “So you do possess an imagination.” She strolled over to peruse the wrinkled spines in his collection. “I have hope for you, milord.”

  “I’m gratified to hear it.” Devon’s mouth twitched in amusement over her presumption this time. Women usually tripped over themselves to fawn over him. The fact that she felt no such compunction was strangely refreshing. He closed the copy of The Mill on the Floss he’d been attempting to read and laid it aside. It was no loss. He hadn’t been able to focus on it properly for the last half hour. “Is that what attracted you to my brother? His imagination?”

  Miss Farnsworth rocked on her heels, hands clasped behind her, while she studied the titles on the west wall.

  “I don’t believe I ought to discuss my relationship with Theodore, since it’s clear you disapprove.”

  “Did I say so?”

  “Not in so many words.” She pulled a first edition Sir Walter Scott bound in Cordoban leather from the shelf and leafed through the frontispiece, examining the woodcuts of scenes from Ivanhoe with absorption. “You were quite amiable when we first met in your garden, but your demeanor has been noticeably cooler toward me since Theodore announced his intentions.”

  She was far too observant for his comfort, but at least she couldn’t see the way he struggled inwardly to maintain his cool exterior.

  “Perhaps I’m more concerned about your intentions toward my brother.”

  She peered over the top of the book at him. “Theodore and I have not known each other long. I intend to continue our association until I’m satisfied on the question of whether or not we would be well-suited.”

  “And it hasn’t occurred to you that the brother of an earl and the daughter of a scholar might be fundamentally ill-suited for each other?”

  “Simply by virtue of our births? Theodore swears it makes no difference to him, though it’s obviously cause for concern to you.” She replaced the Scott as carefully as if it were fashioned of glass. “I must confess, since you’re Theodore’s brother, I thought you might be more enlightened.”

  “What makes you think I’m not?” Every man of good conscience wished to be considered enlightened. Devon was a peer of the realm. Who was this backwater bluestocking to make him feel like a cretin?

  “So far you’ve not shown a talent for thinking that differs from the accepted.” She ran her fingertips over the leather-bound Dickens collection. Devon almost felt the caress along his own spine. “Though I do admire your taste in literature. Please tell me you have actually read these.”

  “Most of them.” Devon rose and walked toward her. “Perhaps you’ll allow that concern for my brother motivates me.”

  “Perhaps. That would be the most charitable view of your attitude toward me.”

  Miss Farnsworth had no idea of his true attitude toward her. Despite his determination not to, he roused to her again. Prickly and unpredictable she might be, but against his better judgment, Devon was drawn to her. Like the heliotropes in his garden that tracked the sun, he couldn’t seem to look away from her.

  “I’m thankful Theodore has a more open mind,” she said.

  Ted had always been charming, athletic and popular. Devon’s brother was many things, but a deep thinker had never been one of them.

  “Laying aside the question of whether or not you and my brother are well-suited,” Devon said, “can you give me an example of Teddy’s open-minded thought?”

  She fixed him with a direct gaze and he sensed she was taking his measure in some fashion.

  “Very well. Here’s an example. When a discovery is made in an academic realm that upsets the previous order of thought about a subject, some scholars try to discount the new knowledge.” She adopted a pedantic tone. He tried to focus on her words instead of the way her breasts rose and fell with each breath, but he wasn’t entirely successful. “It means they must alter, sometimes discard completely, their previously held positions, you see. No one likes to acknowledge they’ve been wrong.”

  He’d never heard a woman speak so authoritatively. His estimate of her intelligence ticked upward by several notches. And so did his appreciation of her bosom.

  “But the first time Teddy saw the Tetisheri statue, he wasn’t the least concerned that it would change a number of preconceived notions,” she said. “He didn’t fear taking a new direction to advance our body of knowledge.”

  Devon scoffed and tried to steer his imagination in a new direction, away from undoing the neat row of buttons on Miss Farnsworth’s bodice. “What Theodore knows about ancient history wouldn’t fill a thimble.”

  “On the contrary, he might surprise you. He’s been studying with my father every day since we met. I’ve never met anyone so anxious to master the finer points of Egyptology.”

  She pulled a copy of Titus Andronicus from the shelf that housed his Shakespearean collection and then leaned against the bookcase as she flipped the pages.

  Probably looking for the gore-filled etchings embedded in the edition, Devon supposed.

  “In fact, Teddy grasped the statue’s significance almost immediately and without Father pointing it out.”

  “My brother has never shown the slightest interest in ancient history and even less in statuary.” Unless the artwork featured a scantily clad female form. Theodore was obviously delving into ancient Egypt in an attempt to win Miss Farnsworth’s favor. Devon couldn’t blame him.

  “Nevertheless, Theodore recognized the statue’s importance.” She tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. “I wonder if you would. Perhaps you should ask my father to show it to you.”

  “Perhaps I will.” He leaned a hand against the bookshelves, pinning Miss Farnsworth against them. She held the copy of Titus Andronicus against her chest as if it was a shield, but she didn’t try to scuttle away from him.

  An eerie sense of recognition descended upon him. Devon suddenly realized that he and Miss Farnsworth were positioned exactly as they’d been at the beginning of his vision. Close, so close he could smell her sweet, peachy scent.

  He felt a tug toward her, but resisted. Teddy would never forgive him.

  She looked up at him, her eyes enormous. “What about you, your lordship? Are you the type to bow to convention or would you take bold action whether it’s approved by the world or not?”

  Yes, blast it all, he was very likely to take action. And kissing his brother’s almost fiancée would most definitely not be approved.

  Unless . . .

  Unless he did it to save his brother from a woman who was undoubtedly wrong for him. It could be argued in that case that Devon had Theodore’s best interests at heart. That motivation would cast his actions in a very different light.

  Miss Farnsworth tilted her head slightly. Her warm, sweet breath streamed across his lips.

  “Damnation,” he murmured and covered her mouth with his.

  CHAPTER 5

  Oh, no! Emmaline thought as the earl bent to kiss her.

  She ought not to have goaded the man, but honestly, he was so blasted pompous and remote, she couldn’t resist needling him.
Evidently, he found her argumentative behavior attractive for some odd reason. Now there was no way to escape his attentions gracefully.

  Then, as he slanted his mouth over hers, she wasn’t sure she wanted to escape.

  His mouth fitted to hers perfectly, moving, seeking. His tongue traced the seam of her lips and, God help her, they parted enough to grant him entrance. He invaded her mouth and a low fire flared to life in her belly. A deep throb began in her lady parts, but the ache was far from unpleasant. Her knees went wobbly.

  Oh, for pity’s sake. Pull yourself together, Emma! Is there anything more trite than weak knees?

  Anyone would think her a pudding-headed debutante, the way she sagged against him, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. His kiss was a drugging elixir and she wasn’t ready to stop imbibing yet.

  The copy of Titus Andronicus slipped unheeded to the floor. She grasped both his lapels and hung on for dear life.

  Lord Devonwood’s hands found her waist and pulled her flush against his body. Beneath the superfine of his waistcoat and the lawn of his shirt, the earl’s corded muscles didn’t have an ounce of give in them. If she struggled to free herself, she’d be on the losing side of the contest.

  But she didn’t exactly want to free herself.

  This wasn’t her first kiss. She’d received amorous attention from a number of gallants during her travels, but their stolen kisses were meaningless and quick and even more swiftly forgotten. Theodore had kissed her on three separate occasions, but she’d been careful to keep a firm rein on the situation each time.

  Now she couldn’t delude herself. Emmaline was wholly out of her depth. Lord Devonwood was not some swain who could be put off with a coquette’s arts, even if she possessed any. For the first time in an amorous situation, she was not in control.

  Judging from the low groan the earl made into her mouth, he wasn’t either.