The Scoundrel’s Seduction Read online

  He required answers, but he shouldn’t be pushing her. Her husband had died and she was a lone woman facing his killer. It was a miracle she still stood, and indeed, that she could face him at all.

  Sam ought to have some kind of sympathy for her situation. He dug about inside himself and found a small shard, long embedded and hidden within the coldhearted ruthlessness that he needed to hold close in order to maintain a semblance of sanity.

  No more questions for her. Not tonight.

  He cleared his throat. “I will send some wine and food. A washbasin and a brush for your hair—” Her hair was beautiful. Shining golden locks, deliciously disheveled. His hand had skimmed over it while he was holding her, and it had been soft as silk. His fingers itched to touch it again, to comb through the satin strands.

  He pushed that thought away.

  “And anything else you might require,” he finished gruffly. He hesitated, then asked, “May I help you with your dress?”

  She went rigid again. He sighed. She’d have to sleep in her dress and in her stays. She’d be uncomfortable. But her posture was so stiff, he feared she’d break if he touched her.

  The bloody hell of it was, he wanted to touch her. And even more disconcerting, he didn’t want her to break when he did so. He wanted to bring pleasure to those feminine curves, to soften those stiff muscles, to mold her body against his, to have her pliant and willing in his arms.

  She’s a traitor. She was French nobility, with high connections in the French government. And she’d been married to Dunthorpe.

  He was tired. That must be it. Her pretty face, her petite, curvaceous little body, the shimmering dress that hugged all those curves, that shining mass of blond curls. He hadn’t slept in the two days leading up to this mission. He was tired, and exhaustion was bludgeoning his carefully constructed shields.

  It had been a damn long time since he’d touched a woman. God, how he wanted to be touching this one.

  She stood there. Waiting. As if she expected him to touch her. Almost as if she wanted him to.

  No, that couldn’t be right.

  “I didn’t mean it in a … an improper way,” he told her. It was true—he hadn’t. As much as his body seemed to reach out to her, to crave her … that could never happen. It was more than his professional duty and responsibility. More than the possibility that she was a traitor. More, even, than his resolve to keep all women at arm’s length.

  For God’s sake—he’d just killed her husband. Jesus. He must be insane. He shook his head.

  She saw the negative movement, and her brow furrowed.

  “Sorry,” he said softly. “You will require assistance with removing your dress. You’ll be more comfortable tonight without it. I meant nothing untoward.”

  “I am to be your prisoner, then.”

  He nodded, keeping his expression flat. “For now.”

  “For how long?” she asked.

  “Until we no longer have need of you.” He tried not to flinch, but hell, that had sounded ominous. Calming overwrought ladies had seldom been part of his job, and he was definitely making a bungle of it. He needed to do better.

  Her throat moved as she swallowed. Her blue eyes studied him intently. “I am your prisoner,” she said slowly, “yet you do not intend to hurt me.”

  “Just so.”

  “Then what do you intend to do with me?”

  Not meeting her eyes, he shrugged. That was also quite ominous, but what else could he do? Adams would want to drag information from her, but that would be a duty for someone else. His specialty was eliminating threats, not pulling secrets from people’s heads.

  He’d probably be free of her by morning. Thank God. This woman … Some part of his shield had cracked, and she seemed to be insinuating herself in. He needed to get away from her. To fortify that crack so it couldn’t be breached again.

  She was staring at him, her blue eyes big in that lovely face. But suddenly, she turned her back to him.

  “Please help with my buttons, Monsieur Hawk.”

  He stared at her for a moment. The soft curls tickling a neck. The row of buttons that traveled down her slender back, ending at the top of her buttocks. What would she look like naked? Beautiful. Perfect. Images of feminine curves and creamy skin assailed him.

  He wanted to peel off her clothes and explore what lay beneath …

  Taking a fortifying breath, he stepped forward and brushed the silky strands of hair away from her neck. She shuddered when his fingertips brushed over her soft, warm skin. His body went hard.

  He gritted his teeth. Focus, Hawkins. But his body had no intention of listening to his mind, to all the reasons it shouldn’t be aroused by this woman.

  His gaze narrowed on the score or so of tiny pearl buttons that ran down her back. She wore a fine ivory silk gown, threaded through with gold embroidery and ribbons and embellished with pearls. Elegant and beautiful, and it fit her like a glove, highlighting all the feminine arcs and curves of that petite, lovely body …

  Focus on the damned buttons.

  He did. Starting from the top, he flicked them open one by one, revealing the soft white muslin of her petticoat beneath. And more of the pale flesh of her neck and upper back. Creamy and smooth, just like he’d known it would be.

  Her shoulders rose and fell with his breaths, which made low, rasping sounds in the sudden quiet of the room. As his fingers traveled down her back, her breaths became ragged and uneven. And, God help him, but his body hardened further at the sound. It was almost, almost the sound of a woman in rapture.

  He undid the last button and pulled the seams open so the dress gaped at her back. She turned quickly, clutching the bodice to her bosom so it didn’t fall away.

  It took all his skills to keep his expression emotionless, to not stare at her like a besotted schoolboy, to not allow his eyes to wander down that sweet, appealing body. To look at her with a gaze he knew was completely detached, completely impassive.

  She was beautiful. The most beautiful woman he’d seen in a very, very long time. He’d thought so when he’d seen her on Dunthorpe’s arm last month, and he thought so now.

  Dunthorpe. The thought of the name alone was enough to throw a bucket of ice water over this errant attraction.

  He stepped back from her and dragged his gaze from where she clutched the bodice to her breasts. “Ah … do you require help with your stays?”

  “Non.” The word was sharp and definitive, sounding very French. “I will manage.”

  “Very well. Laurent—he’s the younger man, the one riding in the carriage with us—will bring you anything you require. Don’t hesitate to ask him.”

  She stared at him, standing very still, still pressing her dress against her body. This was his cue to leave. But all of a sudden, he didn’t want to. Even though he had missives to write, plans to make, orders to follow. Even though he knew he needed to clear his mind. And the only way to do that was to get the hell away from her.

  “Don’t fear Laurent,” he said softly. The boy had a strong moral code when it came to women—perhaps stronger than his own. “He will be naught but a gentleman with you.”

  He watched her straighten her spine and square her shoulders. Her blue eyes sparked defiantly. “I do not fear him.”

  She was an enticing contradiction, this Frenchwoman, this English viscountess. A bundle of shivering fear one minute, then a stoic and stiff automaton, then an angry kitten.

  He couldn’t blame her for such hot-and-cold behavior. Her emotions must be rioting.

  Still, he couldn’t allow himself to feel sorry for her. She had brought this upon herself. Her and Dunthorpe.

  “Will you be all right?” he asked her.

  She gave him a brusque nod. He returned it, then gestured toward the bellpull beside the fireplace. “Ring if you need anything.”

  She raised an imperious brow, and anger snapped in those blue eyes. “If I need anything from the man who killed—who murdered—my husband? Who ki
dnapped me? Ah, yes. Very well, then.” She flicked her fingers in the direction of the fireplace. “I shall ring your little bell if I need anything.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I told you, we’ve no intention of harming you.”

  “Ah, Monsieur Hawk.” Deep cynicism darkened her eyes, but they were clear and honest when they collided with his. “The whole world has intention of harming me. It always has. Always.”

  * * *

  Dunthorpe is dead. Dunthorpe is dead.

  Élise sat in the unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar nightgown that dwarfed her, hugging her knees. The truth of it hammered inside her skull. Dunthorpe was dead, and her life would never be the same. His brother, Francis, would inherit not only the title but all of Dunthorpe’s lands and possessions, and his fortune as well. She wasn’t fool enough to hope he would have left her a single penny.

  Not that it mattered. She had been born into money and had lost it for a while before coming into it again. It had taken her twenty-eight years to realize that some of the best days of her life had also been the poorest ones.

  Dunthorpe is dead.

  She was free.

  Maybe not so very free. Francis would attempt to keep a tight rein on her. However, unlike Dunthorpe, Francis didn’t have the legal right to control her. It’d be far easier to slip through his thick and clumsy fingers than it had been to escape Dunthorpe.

  If she even had the opportunity to slip through Francis’s fingers. First she had the problem of these three men.

  Who were they? What did they want from her? Why had they killed Dunthorpe? The answers were not forthcoming. She knew well that Dunthorpe had many enemies. They could be working for themselves, for an outside individual, for one of any number of governments.

  They were definitely British, though. Gentlemen spies? Because they were gentlemen—at least Hawk was. It was easy enough to discern that much from the cadence of his accent.

  A soft knock sounded at the door, and she hugged her knees tighter and turned her head in the direction of the noise. The door opened, and Laurent, the youth, stood there carrying a tray that contained a plate of food and a glass of red liquid that must be wine.

  He gave her a friendly smile, and she took in a measured breath, trying to control her trembling. It was so odd for a man to be walking into a room while she was in bed. She didn’t think it had ever happened to her in her adult life, aside from those times Dunthorpe had entered her bedchamber to order her to perform her wifely duties. That had happened seldom in the past few years.

  “Sorry.” His voice was smooth, refined, and quite British, but Laurent was a French name. He was very young, so if his parents had been émigrés fleeing the Revolution, he had probably been born in England. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, but I brought a bit of food—just some bread and cheese—and some wine.”

  She gazed at him as he set the tray on the table. She struggled to find something to say. It was difficult to speak in normal tones with these men—how could one hold a pleasant, everyday conversation with the people who’d murdered one’s husband?

  “Right,” Laurent said when she didn’t answer. “Well, I’m heading off to bed now, but I wanted to let you know that if you need anything else, just ring the bell, and I’ll come straightaway.”

  She kept herself in that tight curled-up ball seated upon the bed. She opened her mouth to speak, but what would she say? She wouldn’t thank him. So she closed her mouth and simply nodded.

  He bade her good night and closed the door, locking it behind him.

  They might sleep, but she wouldn’t. Not until she was far away from these dangerous Englishmen.

  She’d go to Marie in Hampstead. Marie was her only true friend.

  But Marie didn’t have the resources to hide her from Francis. Marie didn’t mean safety, and Élise had no desire to place her in danger. She couldn’t stay with Marie for long. Just long enough to collect a few required items; then she’d leave. She’d disappear. Maybe go to France.

  She scoffed out loud at that.

  No, certainly not France. Somewhere no one would look for her. The Highlands of Scotland, maybe. Or Ireland. No one would think to hunt for her in Ireland.

  A new start. A new life, where nobody knew her as Élisabeth de Longmont, and where no one knew her as Lady Dunthorpe. Freedom.

  But first she needed to get free.

  She waited for ten minutes. Then she straightened her legs and swung them over the edge of the bed. She slid to standing, the floor planks cool under her still-stockinged feet. She went to the closet, which was packed with clothes for men and ladies of all sizes and shapes. She rifled through it until she found a shirt and a tattered pair of breeches, clearly for a youth of around Laurent’s age.

  Too large, but otherwise perfect.

  Quickly, she slipped out of the ridiculous nightgown. She’d kept her stays on and her shift underneath, and she didn’t remove them now. The stays flattened her breasts, and though she didn’t harbor any illusions that she could truly look like a man, she had her size, this clothing, and the shadows of night to cloak her.

  She pulled on the shirt, which hung past her knees over her stays, and tied it at the neck. She pulled on the breeches, but they wouldn’t stay on. Her hips were too narrow, and she had no belt or braces with which to hold them up. Nor did the closet readily supply anything that could be of use.

  Chewing her lip while holding the breeches on with one hand, she turned in a slow circle, perusing the room. It contained little besides the clothes, the bed and bedding, and a few other pieces of furniture. There was no adornment, no pictures on the walls or trinkets on the mantel. A thick blanket and silk counterpane covered the bed, and there were four pillows but no bed curtains. She went to the desk and pulled open the three drawers. All empty.

  Her gaze moved to the dress she’d been wearing earlier this evening.

  Letting the breeches fall, she stepped out of them. Ignoring the food and wine Laurent had placed on the desk, she lifted her dress off the chair and took it to the bed, laying it out with the seams of the skirt exposed.

  With a firm yank, she tore the seams apart. She pulled on the thin gold ribbon that had been threaded through the hem of the dress, and it came out easily, weaving in and out of the ivory silk of the skirt.

  When it was all the way out, she pulled the breeches back on and tied the gold ribbon about her waist. She looked down at herself. The waist of the breeches was bunched up over her shift and stays, tied by a silly, effeminate ribbon. More ridiculousness. But at least she wouldn’t be running about on the streets of London naked.

  She had found three coats in the closet. She took the smallest one and wrapped it around her, then took a single pin from her hair before setting a woolen cap at a jaunty angle on her head.

  She approached the door with purpose, wielding the long hairpin like a weapon. When she reached it, she crouched down and inserted the pin into the lock.

  It took several minutes of deep concentration, picturing the tumblers of the lock in her mind, probing with the pin. She was by no means a lock-picking expert, but eleven years as Dunthorpe’s wife had forced her to learn a few things out of sheer self-preservation.

  Click.

  She froze. Then, belatedly realizing she’d been holding her breath, she let it out with a long, low whoosh.

  Carefully, she withdrew the pin. Jamming it back into her hair beneath the cap, she rose. Then, ever so slowly, she opened the door.

  Chapter Three

  Carter clapped Sam on the back. “Here.” He set a glass of port upon the desk in front of Sam. “It’ll do you some good.”

  Sam’s gaze flickered from the port up to Carter.

  “You ought to sleep,” Carter said.

  Yes, he ought to. But Carter knew how elusive sleep could be for him. “Wish I could have Laurent’s constitution,” he said. “He just left her room, but he’s probably already snoring into his pillow.”

  “No doubt.” Carter ges
tured to the glass and spoke quietly. “It’ll help. Drink up, lad.”

  Sam’s lips quirked. The man was older than him, had been part of this game for longer. Nevertheless, Sam was no bumbling youth—he was thirty-two, but most days he felt far older. He was also Carter’s superior, so it bemused him when the older man called him “lad.” Carter knew this, and he grinned.

  “Sleep,” he said again, squeezing Sam’s shoulder. “We’ll work it all out in the morning.”

  “I’ll go down in a minute.” His room was adjacent to Lady Dunthorpe’s. Close, so he could be near if his prisoner required anything—or attempted anything foolish, like escape—in the middle of the night.

  Carter nodded, then slipped out the door, headed to his own bed in one of the upstairs chambers.

  Alone for the first time tonight, Sam gazed down at the desk. To the left of the glass of port lay the single sheet of paper containing his current orders. Laurent had delivered his mission notes to Adams and within an hour had returned with the reply:

  Keep the woman until you receive further instructions.

  Damn it.

  He was stuck in London. Entertaining a woman who made his pulse pound every time he laid eyes on her.

  A woman whose husband he’d killed. Whom she’d seen him kill.

  He couldn’t imagine anything he’d be less eager to do.

  Searching for a distraction from thoughts of Lady Dunthorpe, he looked down again. To the right of his port glass lay a missive from Sam’s younger half brother, the Duke of Trent.

  The purpose of Trent’s letter was to update Sam on the status of the search for their mother, who’d disappeared last spring. She’d been missing for almost a year now, and while they’d learned that she was most likely alive and in the company of a gypsy named Steven Lowell, they still possessed little evidence as to where she might be and no understanding of why she’d left her home in the dead of night last April.

  He opened the letter and read it again.