Seducing the Viscount Page 7

His hands actually trembled as he reverently palmed the soft weights, his thumb brushing over the tender peaks. They were more beautiful than in his dreams.

  Ian was barely aware he was moving until his head had dipped downward and he had his lips wrapped around the bud of her nipple. He wanted to taste her in this exact manner when he spread her legs and penetrated her. There were few things he enjoyed more than suckling a woman as she screamed out her climax.

  Well . . . perhaps having her suckle his . . .

  The delicious image of Mercy’s sunlight curls bouncing as she took him deep in her mouth was abruptly disturbed as her soft whimper echoed through the hushed air.

  It was not a whimper of pain. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  It was the sound a woman made when her passions were being stirred to the point of no return.

  The devil take it.

  It had been less than twenty-four hours since he had promised himself that he would not be the man to relieve this woman of her innocence. And yet, here he was, holding her half naked in his arms, a breath away from yanking up her skirts and doing precisely what he warned her he would do.

  He was a fool.

  Whether for presuming he could dare temptation without getting burned, or for denying himself what was so blatantly offered, was impossible to decide.

  Lifting his head, he glared in frustration at her flushed features and dark, siren eyes.

  “Do you have no sense of self-preservation?” he rasped.

  “Why?” She blinked, her breath still coming in soft pants. “Do you intend to hurt me?”

  His brows snapped together at the ludicrous question. “What I intend to do is to steal your virtue, which many women would consider worse than death.”

  She touched her tongue to her lips that were still swollen from his kisses. “You can hardly steal what I was freely giving.”

  A heat that could have rivaled the fires of hell seared through him, nearly undoing his brief moment of sanity.

  “Damn you,” he gritted, forcing himself to drop his hands and step back from her exquisite temptation. “I will not have the sin of despoiling the daughter of a vicar on my soul.”

  With hands that were not quite steady she righted her rumpled shift and tugged at the stays of her corset. Ian felt a raw pang of disappointment to accept that the momentary encounter was at an end. He wanted to thump his head against the workbench, cursing his stupidity in allowing this chit to walk away unscathed. He would be suffering for days.

  “So it is only the knowledge that my father is a vicar that halts you?” she demanded.

  “Not entirely.” With a muttered curse he brushed aside her fumbling attempts to button the tight bodice and efficiently slid the buttons through their matching eyes. “It may surprise you, but I have never made a habit of bedding virgins.”

  “Have you known any virgins?”

  Dropping his hands as if they had been scalded, he regarded her with a dark frown.

  “A few. All of them wise enough to slap my face when I became overly bold.”

  Despite the heat staining her cheeks, she met his frown with a challenging tilt of her chin.

  “Why is it my duty to slap your face?” she demanded. “Why is it not your duty to avoid becoming overbold?”

  “Because the penalty for my sins would be nothing more than a hotter place in hell, why you . . . you, sweet Mercy, would be the one to suffer for a brief moment of madness.”

  She appeared unimpressed by his argument. “That hardly seems fair.”

  “I did not make the rules, Miss Mercy Simpson, I merely play by them.”

  “I very much doubt you have ever played by the rules in your entire life, Mr. Ian Breckford.”

  Well, that was true enough. He had devoted a lifetime to flaunting authority and scandalizing the humorless prigs who sought to strangle him with their notions of right and wrong.

  It was only Dunnington who had managed to reach deep beneath his defensive demeanor.

  The wily old tutor had suspected Ian’s talent for numbers at an early age and had used Ian’s brash love for cards to teach him more than just gambling. Before Ian had ever realized what had happened, he was not only happily settled with Raoul and Fredrick beneath Dunnington’s roof, but he was actually enjoying his lessons.

  “There must be a first occasion for everything,” he muttered.

  Her smile was wry, clearly thinking of his refusal to be her first lover.

  “Not for everything, it would seem.”

  With her dignity wrapped about her, Mercy turned and glided down the path to the house. Left on his own, Ian moved to slam his fist against the workbench.

  Damn the aggravating wood sprite.

  She was surely destined to lead him straight to hell.

  Leaving her chambers well before dinner was to be announced, Ella Breckford headed down the marble corridor to the master bedroom.

  She knew at this hour her brother would be seated by the fire in his private sitting room, sipping his favorite brandy and reading the evening papers. In some ways Norry was as predictable as the rising sun or changing seasons.

  In other ways he could be an aloof stranger that not even his beloved sister could fathom.

  With a light tap on the door, Ella pushed it open and peeked into the pretty lilac and ivory room that held her brother’s framed etchings of his beloved flowers. Along one wall were shelves that held his private collection of first-edition books as well as several marble busts that immortalized the long line of Norrington men.

  Her heart clenched at the familiar aquiline nose and high brow that had been passed down through the ages. The same nose and brow that marked both her brother and Ian as true Norringtons.

  “Norry?” she said softly. “May I join you?”

  Folding his paper and setting it aside, her brother readily rose to his feet.

  “But of course.” He touched his intricately tied cravat and smoothed his hands down his dark blue jacket as she crossed to stand before him. He was always exquisitely attired, regardless of whether he was attending a royal ball or dining alone in the country. “Is there something troubling you?”

  “I . . .” She bit her words as her nerves tightened her throat. This had all seemed so much simpler when she had been alone in her chambers.

  “My dear, you appear in need of a sherry.” Moving toward the fireplace where a cheery blaze battled the spring chill, Norry poured her a generous portion of the delicate spirit and returned to press the glass into her hand. “Now tell me what is upon your mind.”

  Ella took a sip of the sherry, attempting to gather her fading courage.

  “It is Ian,” she at last said.

  Norry’s lips thinned, his expression guarded as he toyed with the signet ring on his little finger.

  “I have already promised you that I would do my best to make peace with the boy, Ella. What more would you have from me?”

  She swallowed a sigh. It was a pity that the two men were both so opposite. Unless one counted their stubborn belief that they were always right.

  To make matters even worse, Ian had been naturally blessed with all the traits that had been admired by Norry’s own father. He was an envied sportsman, a charming rake, a hardened gamester, and a favorite among society. All the things that Norry had lacked.

  Perhaps it was inevitable that the older man would nurture a deep resentment.

  “Yes, I recall your promise, and I believe you, Norry.”

  “Then what?”

  Ella drained her glass and set it aside, her fingers absently toying with the ribbon at the waist of her green crepe de chine gown.

  “He has begun to ask rather difficult questions.”

  Norry’s wariness deepened. “What sort of questions?”

  “Questions about his past.” She arched her brow in a significant motion. “About you and his mother.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “I merely repeated the story we have told for years
.”

  “Then what is the problem?”

  “I do not believe he was satisfied.”

  The dark eyes hardened. “A pity, of course, but there is nothing to be done. He will simply have to accept what you have offered.”

  She gently cleared her throat, as her fingers nearly ripped the ribbon to shreds. “Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless we reveal the truth.”

  There was a thunderous silence as Norry regarded her as if she had grown a second head. She was not surprised. She had known before she approached her brother that he would be far from happy with her desire to answer Ian’s questions.

  “Good God, Ella, have you taken leave of your senses?” he at last managed to rasp. “If the truth were to be known, I would be ruined, and you—”

  “Ian could be trusted to keep our secrets,” she interrupted, her tone urgent.

  Rather than the anger that she had been expecting, Norry’s thin features softened, and without warning he stepped forward to stroke her cheek with a gentle, sympathetic hand.

  “No, Ella,” he said, genuine regret in his voice. “You know as well as I that any confession would merely hurt Ian. He would naturally feel betrayed by the both of us, and his first thought would be to strike back at those who had lied to him. We cannot take such a risk.”

  The brief flare of hope that had burned in her heart began to fade, replaced by the familiar ache of regret she had carried for so long.

  She had been foolish to believe that fate could be changed at this late date. And even more of a fool to believe that she could somehow make amends for the past.

  Norry was right. To confess the truth now would only hurt Ian further. That was the last thing she desired.

  She heaved a sorrowful sigh. “I hate to see him so hard and cynical.”

  With care not to muss her attire, Norry pulled her into his arms. “I promise I will do my best to heal the wounds that I unwittingly caused, Ella. But Ian can never, ever know the truth of his past.”

  Chapter 6

  Rather than following his fleeing wood sprite to the house, Ian turned on his heel and made his way to the door that led to the inner courtyard. He was still fully aroused and in no condition to cross paths with his aunt. Hell, he was in no condition to cross anyone’s path.

  Besides, he had a task awaiting him that had been interrupted by Mercy’s unexpected arrival in the conservatory.

  Marching with a grim purpose toward the distant stables, Ian refused to recall the delectable if wrenchingly frustrating encounter. What was the purpose? Nothing could alter his brutal, near-consuming desire for the chit. Or the fact that she was the one woman he could not have.

  With enough sense to choose the path that would take him to the gate rather than vaulting the low stone fence, Ian managed to contain his urge to snap and snarl before reaching the expansive stables that now contained only a handful of horses. He even had enough sense to halt in the tack room and grab a leather satchel.

  Halting in the shadows he pulled a folded playbill from beneath his jacket and studied the gaudy painting of two Greco-Roman wrestlers. He had never heard of the London theatre that was listed or the strange performances that were printed on the back. Certainly it was not a licensed theatre or the usual plays expected by London audiences.

  It could be nothing, of course, but it had captured his attention hidden among the other magazines and letters that had been stuffed into his father’s desk in the conservatory. And he had spent enough time in the more disreputable parts of London to know that such follies could be true dens of iniquity. Perhaps his father’s deeply held secret was connected to such a place.

  It was at least a place to begin.

  Thank God, Mercy had not realized he was stealing the damnable thing when she had entered the conservatory and . . .

  Oh, for Christ’s sake.

  Shoving the playbill into the satchel, Ian went in search of a servant. Maybe if he kept moving he could put the damn wench from his mind.

  It took only a few moments before he managed to corner one of the grooms tending to his aunt’s matching pair of grays.

  “You there,” he called softly. The fewer who knew of his visit to the stables, the better.

  The thin, young man with a shock of red hair and a spotty face dropped the brush and stepped from the stall. His muddy brown eyes widened as he realized who had interrupted his duties.

  Ian hid a wry smile. For all his father’s less-than-admirable traits, there was no doubt he had ensured that his bastard son was treated with nothing but absolute respect by the staff. Ian could not remember a moment when his requests were not attended to with gratifying eagerness.

  “Aye, sir?” the groom demanded, his gaze lingering for a wistful moment on Ian’s elegantly tied cravat before returning to regard him with an expectant expression.

  “I have a task for you.”

  There was no hesitation as the groom gave a nod of his head. Obviously the boy had been taught that Norrington’s bastard son was to be obeyed without question.

  “Very good. How may I be of service?”

  Ian held out the leather pouch. “I wish you to take this satchel directly to Mr. Raoul Charlebois in Drury Lane.”

  The brown eyes widened in wonderment. “Raoul Charlebois, the actor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  Ian smiled. Even in the midst of the country, his friend managed to inspire a reverent awe.

  “Do not allow anyone to open it.” His narrowed gaze warned that this included the groom. “And for God’s sake, do not lose it.”

  The servant appeared suitably offended as he reached to take the satchel. “Certainly not, sir.”

  “When you reach Mr. Charlebois, I want you to tell him it is from me and that I wish to know everything there is to know about what is inside.” He held up a hand at his companion’s puzzled expression. “He will understand, trust me. Can you remember all that?”

  “I’m to deliver this here satchel to Mr. Charlebois in Drury Lane and tell him to find out whatever he can about the thing.”

  “Well done.” Reaching beneath his jacket, Ian extracted a coin from his pocket and pressed it into the groom’s hand. “If anyone is to ask, I sent you to London with a missive for my mistress.”

  The groom shrugged, clearly unperturbed by the request. “Aye.”

  “Make the journey as swiftly as possible and there will be another shilling for you.”

  A glint of anticipation brightened the brown eyes. “Aye, sir. Very generous.”

  Assured that the playbill would soon be in Raoul’s hands, Ian turned and made his way out of the stables. If he were quick enough, he might have time to search his father’s desk in the library before the older man came down for dinner.

  A dangerous risk, but a better choice than returning to his rooms and having the opportunity to dwell on Miss Mercy Simpson and the unholy temptation she offered.

  Choosing a side door, Ian swiftly made his way to the main house, knowing that the servants would be busy preparing for dinner. With any luck he would be able to reach the study without stumbling over half a dozen footmen and maids.

  He did manage to climb the stairs and make his way down the corridor, but before he could actually reach the library the door to the study was pushed open and his father appeared.

  “Ah, there you are, Ian.”

  Ian came to a smooth halt, confident that his flare of shock could not be read upon his carefully bland expression.

  “Were you searching for me?”

  There was an awkward pause before Norrington cleared his throat and waved a hand toward the study.

  “I thought we might have a drink in my study before you change for dinner.”

  Ian would not have been more shocked if his father had sprouted wings and begun to fly about the house.

  “Just . . . the two of us?”

  “If that suits you.”

  Ia
n struggled to contain his disbelief. His father had never in his life issued an invitation to join him. Not even when he had been up to some mischief. It had always been enough for him to glare at his son with that cold disapproval.

  So the question was, why now?

  With a mental shrug, Ian forced his feet forward. Whatever the cause for the unexpected invitation, it was the perfect opportunity to learn more of his father.

  “Yes.” He managed a stiff smile. “Yes, of course.”

  “Good.” Leading the way back into the private study, Norrington crossed directly toward the heavy sideboard. “I believe you possess a preference for whiskey?”

  How the devil did he know that?

  Ian hid his surprise and strolled toward the distant wall that held a number of framed charcoal sketches.

  “Irish?”

  “Of course.”

  Pouring them both a generous measure, Norrington crossed to Ian’s side and pressed the glass into his hand.

  “Thank you.” Taking a sip, Ian nodded toward the pictures of various flowers. “Did you do these?”

  “Yes.”

  Ian did not attempt to hide his admiration. He might not possess a great love for art, but he did know when he was gazing upon an accomplished work.

  “They are very good. Did you ever consider studying art with a master?”

  He sensed his father stiffen at his side. “It was a childhood dream of mine. However, my father considered artists unsavory characters and refused to allow me to train.” His short laugh was painfully devoid of amusement. “Indeed, he tossed my etchings into the fire when he happened across them.”

  “Why? Many gentlemen of quality are devoted to art.”

  “He thought I should be practicing my fencing skills rather than sketching.”

  Ian tried not to imagine his father as a young boy watching his beloved etchings destroyed for no other purpose than sheer spite. Such a thought might make him consider the notion that his father had been trained by a brutal bully to hide his emotions behind a cold barrier of indifference.

  “He sounds like a singularly unpleasant man,” Ian muttered, wondering if his grandfather had also drowned kittens and taken potshots at poachers.