Page 10 of Seduced by a Scoundrel (The Spinster Society #3)

K issing Keir was a much, much nicer way to warm up.

He was the spark of a Yule log, the burn of whisky, a lightning strike on midsummer. How could he be all of these wild and primal things and still the Marquess Blackburn with his unwavering adherence to duty and honor and not-smiling was beyond her.

There was nothing of duty in this kiss.

It was desperate.

Forbidden.

Necessary.

And it burned through her from the top of her head to the tips of her frozen toes. It melted away the cold, the knowledge that this changed nothing, as always. None of that mattered. Not with his hand cradling her nape, digging into the stiff muscles there, twisting in her hair. Not with the soft groan that rumbled in his chest as though she were the sweetest of sweets. As though each taste was the first.

She made sounds of her own, a gasp, a moan. Very nearly a whimper just from the slide of his tongue against hers. It was a deep, slow kiss, one that had every intention of rewriting every single thing she thought she knew about her body. She felt it in her belly, in her thighs, in her ribcage. In the dark corners of her mind where every worry sat waiting for her to let down her guard. She was too much, her curves were too soft, her laugh too loud. None of that mattered. None of it even existed.

She kissed him back, nipping at his lower lip, sucking it into her mouth until his fingers tightened in her hair and he muttered something lovely and filthy.

Not at all the kind of poetry one might expect from the Marquess Blackburn.

As a rule, they did not speak of what burned between them. Not even as it burned between them. But the things he whispered to her now made her thighs clench.

He was Keir, the real Keir that she sometimes thought she saw beneath the inscrutable mask. And then he dragged kisses across her jaw and sucked at the spot below her ear and every single remaining thought fled from her. Every single one. Mere words were left: more, please. Again.

There was only the hard press of his chest against hers as he held her closer, the tightening of her nipples in response. The light scrape of his teeth, his tongue soothing the spot. The arousal pooling throughout her body and making her feel like she were as pliant as melting beeswax all honey and fire.

It was everything. Too much. Not enough.

It would never be enough.

He slipped his hand inside her breeches, sliding his fingers between her already slick and swollen folds. “You’re so wet for me,” he murmured as though she had pleased him.

He never spoke like this. It did things to her she could not have expected. It made her feel soft and feral, all whimpering breath but also teeth. “ Keir. ”

Saying his name seemed to unlock something in him. The intensity of his gaze burned through her, licked up her spine, tingled through her thighs. He curled two fingers inside her passage, using his thumb to tease her bud, circling it slowly, then flicking over it until she gasped. She arched against him, desperate for more. Her leg muscles quivered as she chased the press of his hand, squirming away at the same time when it was too much. She rode him until her vision sparked, until the pleasure tightened and sharpened inside her.

He bit into her neck and the waves crested immediately, crashing through her.

The ferociousness of it did not ease. She ripped the buttons of his own breeches open, and he sprang free into her palm, hot and silky and hard. She gripped him, not gently, pumping up and down until his breaths were ragged and harsh. He yanked her breeches down, dragging her over his lap, her knees on either side. His fingers dimpled in the curve of her hips. “Ride me, Sybil. Use me.”

The sound of his husky voice was devastating. She fitted him at her opening and then eased down, agonizingly slow, torturing them both. When she was seated, filled to the hilt, she rolled her hips. He jerked up into her, shooting sensations through limbs. She pulled up, dropped back down. His forehead was pressed to her throat and she clung to him, met each movement with a thrust. Her legs burned. He surged up, grasping her waist and taking control, lifting her easily, sliding her back down over his cock until she moaned, intimate muscles fluttering in response.

He gritted his teeth, refusing to come until she collapsed against him, shaking and whimpering. He surged up again, then pulled out and groaned, spending into a handkerchief.

It took some time for Sybil to catch her breath. She was feeling too much.

She pulled her clothes back on and shoved her feet into her wet boots. And then the sun finally won its battle with the wintry clouds and pierced through the gaps in the curtains. It was too bright and too warm and too real.

When she had put herself back to rights, the carriage pulled to a stop.

Keir helped her down without a word.

She darted up the steps to Spinster House, also without a word.

And she quite forgot to ask how he knew where she lived when she was not at home.

Sybil found herself in the Park later that afternoon, after a very few hours of sleep.

Mostly because one could not spend every moment reliving a tryst in a hired hackney. No matter how it threatened to sear into one’s soul and remain there forever.

Something had changed. Was changing. Maybe?

But just because she could not stop thinking about it, that did not mean that Keir was similarly affected. She mostly elicited an exasperated stare or the enthusiasm of a stone from him.

When they weren’t clawing at each other, all desperate mouths and hands.

A hot tingle raced through her, unbidden, ungovernable.

It had been like that since she woke. Tea had not helped, nor toasted bread, nor throwing knives at a target in the ballroom. A bracing walk would surely do the trick. The sky was a hard shell of blue, sunlight glistening on the icy glass of the Serpentine and the mounds of fresh snow. Children ran past with red woolen mittens and matching red cheeks, shouting with unrestrained glee. Ladies promenaded in their thickest pelisses, hands warm in fur muffs. A cart offering roasted chestnuts and gingerbread in paper wraps did brisk business. It was cheerful and crowded, everyone taking advantage of the sun’s brief appearance, of the storybook snow turning London into a soft confection.

Sybil bought her own bag of peeled chestnuts and popped one into her mouth. It was sweet and warm and perfectly brought to mind Christmas outings to gather holly and pine boughs from Hyde Park, even though it was frowned upon. The tip of her nose was cold and the rest of her pleasantly warm. She skirted a snowball battle and three snow angels.

Couples walked closer than was generally considered appropriate, taking advantage of the cold. They sat on benches and shared gingerbread. They wandered into the trees for a moment of romantic privacy.

“They” suddenly included Sophie and a young gentleman Sybil did not recognize.

She paused as he whispered something in Sophie’s ear. Sophie blushed.

Sybil did not wish to break up a lovely stolen moment.

Except that something in her belly tightened in warning.

And she had learned to trust herself, despite the fact that her body now reacted to the cold as though she were in danger. She would not let Eastbourne’s cellar steal that from her. Not when Sophie’s reputation might be at stake. Damn her reputation—her safety was paramount.

Sybil strode forward, pasting on her most cheerful smile. No need to make a fuss and embarrass the girl. At her age, Sybil would have been mortified if an older woman had interrupted with well-meaning lectures.

An older woman.

A spinster.

Sybil struggled not to let her smile turn into a disgruntled sigh.

If she was going to be a dried-up, wizened old spinster at the age of twenty-nine, then let it be for some good.

“Sophie,” she said calmly.

“Sybil!” Sophie started, eyes widening guiltily. “Is my brother with you?”

“No, why should he be?” Sybil would not think on that answer too hard.

“Oh, good.” Sophie wilted with relief. Her cheeks were pink. She looked as fetching a young girl with her first secret love could ever look. “Miss Taunton, may I present Mr. Pelham.”

“Good afternoon,” Sybil greeted him neutrally. Politely. And with a narrowed eye. She could not help herself. Something about him set off internal bells.

“Miss Taunton.” He bowed with a charming grin. His hair curled over his forehead and into his eyes, also charming. He tossed it clear, charmingly.

He was charmingly charming.

Sybil nearly groaned. Blast. She did not trust charming. And she recognized his name from Priya’s list of known fortune hunters.

Blast and botheration.

“Mr. Pelham, was it? I knew your father.”

It was a bland, nothing statement that said everything. She knew his father had cut him off, which meant she also knew he had been caught trying to steal away to Gretna Green with a young girl just last month. His smile slipped, then dazzled brighter. “How do you know my father?”

“Miss Taunton is the daughter of Lord Wentworth,” Sophie put in.

“I know a great many people.” Sybil smiled back, just as dazzling, only hers was the dazzle of a sharpened knife, not a paste jewel.

“I see.” He took Sophie’s hand. “Miss Montgomery, I have taken too much of your time.” She blushed. He turned to Sybil, who met his eyes squarely, without a word. “Erm. Miss Taunton.”

They watched him hurry through the snow. Sophie bounced on her toes once. “Isn’t he too handsome?”

“He is very pretty. He is a bit older than you.”

“He is only twenty-four.”

“I see. Why is he not courting a debutante?”

“He says they are dull as ditchwater. He says I am not like the other girls.”

“Does he now.”

Sophie grimaced. “Oh, not that tone.”

“Tone?”

“‘Sophie, you’re too young. Sophie, you’re too reckless.’ The Keir tone. I thought you different.”

Sybil raised an eyebrow. “I am different, Sophie. Which is why I will tell you I do not begrudge you a flirtation.”

“You… don’t?”

“But I will also point out that being like other girls should not be an insult.”

“Oh.” Sophie frowned. “I suppose not.”

“And I will add that if you choose to sneak about without your chaperone and with a man that your brother has not vetted, then you must be far more clever than you are being at present.”

Sophie blinked at her. “You are never sharp with me.”

“This is important.”

“It was only a kiss.” She wrinkled her nose. “Or three.”

“Kisses are lovely and do not concern me.”

“They don’t?” She clearly was not expecting that response.

“No, as I said, what concerns me is you .”

“My reputation.”

“Certainly. Reputations are a tiresome thing, but they are one of the very few weapons we have. Usually, they are turned against us, but if we are very clever, we can wield them for ourselves.”

Sophie had stopped staring after Mr. Pelham. “This is not the kind of lecture my governess ever gave me.”

“I expect not, so listen to me carefully, if you please.” Sybil really ought to start a finishing school of her own, for girls on the cusp of becoming debutantes. To teach them the important things. Investigation. Subterfuge. How to use a sharp bonnet pin to discourage unwanted advances.

“Did you see his boots?” Sybil asked even though she knew perfectly well that Sophie had paid no attention whatsoever to his boots.

“What of them?”

“They are far better quality than his hat. That is because hats are flashy. It is a simple thing to steal one or buy one cheaply from a valet replacing his master’s wardrobe. Even a good theater company can make a hat passable for a stroll through Mayfair. But Hessian boots are terribly expensive. And they make you look expensive, especially if you are a fortune hunter who has been cut off but are still pretending to be flush.”

“You can’t know that from a hat and a pair of boots.”

“I can know that and more from a great many small details. And so can you.”

Sophie lifted her chin defiantly, but she was still frowning. “He said he loved me.”

“And I hope he does. But as a debutante with a large dowry, it is best you know how to spot these things for yourself whenever possible.”

“My brother would never marry me off to a fortune hunter.”

Sybil thought of Keir’s quiet, intense gaze. The set of his jaw at the thought of a lady not being warm enough. “He would not. But wouldn’t you rather know for yourself?”

“I suppose I would.”

“Sometimes, you can’t,” Sybil said. “I’ll be honest about that. Sometimes we get fooled. But why make it easy for them?”

Sophie nodded thoughtfully as they walked through the snow back to the main path. “No one has ever told me anything like this.”

“I know. Perhaps I ought to tell you to talk to your brother or some such thing instead. But the reason fortune hunters can talk girls into eloping—or into other, more unsavory things—is because we insist on treating them like they are dolls.”

“I am not a doll.”

“Then allow me to also tell you that your Mr. Pelham tried to elope with a Miss Aldridge just last month.”

Sophie’s mouth dropped open. “He met me two months ago! In the village near my school.” She huffed out a breath. “Where Miss Aldridge used to attend, by the way.”

“I expect he was in that particular village by design, then.”

Sophie crossed her arms, vexed. Clearly also hurt, but mostly vexed. “That… arse.”

“I am sorry, Sophie. Are you in love with him?”

“I liked him very much, but now I wish equally as much to kick him very hard in the shins.”

“Two things can be true at once.” Sybil smiled. “I can teach you how to kick to best effect without breaking your own toes.”

“Good.” Sophie’s eyes were swimming with tears, but she did not let them fall. “I should like to marry one day. Not him, obviously. I was never going to marry him. But are you saying I cannot? Should not? Ever?”

“Certainly not,” Sybil said. “This isn’t about love or matches made with clear, honest eyes whatever their private agreements might be. This is about power and respect and unscrupulous people. That is all.”

“And you won’t tell my brother?”

“If you’ll promise me you’ll be more careful.” Telling Keir would only result in a row. And several more chaperones, possibly an armed guard. All of which would only have made Sybil dig in her heels and rebel all the harder at the age of sixteen. Sophie might well elope out of spite. “And you will take my suggestions to your friends. I will give you a list of peers to avoid, and their families. Some of those fortune hunters’ mothers are far worse, believe me.”

Sophie smiled grimly. “This is much more useful than any French lessons or my abysmal watercolors.”

Sybil knew what it felt like to be overlooked, to be trapped, to be grateful and happy and not care about what others thought of you while still somehow caring what others thought of you. It was exhausting. Stifling. “Your first lesson?” she asked, gathering snow in her mittens.

“Yes?”

“Practice your aim—you never know when it might come in handy.”

Sybil proceeded to hit her square in the face with the snowball.

Sophie squawked. Snow dripped from her chin. “You…” she sputtered. She shivered when a splatter of water snuck under her scarf. “This means war!”

Sybil laughed. “Make me proud!”

The resulting volleys of snowballs would have made a master gunner proud. Snow flew, as did insults and shouts and screams of laughter. A few passersby sniffed in disdain, but many more smiled. Several children joined the war. Sybil crouched, throwing snowball after snowball until she was breathless with laughter. Sophie finally hid behind a tree, hair damp, smile wide. “I yield!”

But Sybil still had a snowball in her possession. And it was perfect. Soft, well formed, ready to fly. She considered it carefully.

Sophie pointed to her left, where the reasonable members of Society promenaded and stopped to greet each other. They were dry and fashionable and not at all sweaty and messy. They were like Keir.

Just like Keir, in fact.

Standing there, large as a standing stone, with his dark hair and his strong shoulders and perfect posture. Sybil would know him anywhere, even from the back. His coat was dark blue, cut simply. His hair curled, just a bit at his nape, under his beaver-crown hat. He looked nothing like the man who had taken her in a carriage just that morning.

Sophie waggled her eyebrows.

Sybil, never able to refuse a challenge or a really bad idea, took aim.

Her perfect snowball arced over the heads of fascinated children, a dog with long, floppy ears, an older woman eating a peppermint candy.

And then it hit Keir squarely in the back of the head.

Sophie positively crowed with laughter.

Keir turned slowly, and when his eyes met Sybil’s, he did not seem even a little surprised to see her.

Lady Violetta, however, was.

She had been blocked by Keir’s towering body, her lilac pelisse rimmed with white fur to match her muff. Her rosebud mouth made a moue of surprise. Her eyes twinkled with a giggle under the brim of her bonnet.

Sophie darted toward her big brother, flushed and happy and thinking not at all about Mr. Pelham, and that made it worthwhile. Made the sour worm inside Sybil’s chest easier to ignore. The one that said, once again, that she was too wild, too impulsive. Too much.

Always too much when she was not pretending to be a wallflower, a young lord, a fine lady lost in the rain.

When she was herself.

Especially when faced with someone who was just right.

Sybil had been jealous before, of course. One did not grow up without wrestling with some unbecoming emotions. When she was very little, she had been jealous of the sea for keeping her father away for so long. Later, of the bigger children for being able to muscle closer to the fire barrels. Of people who walked right into bakeries and bought whatever they liked. After Amandine brought her home, her rare jealousy was reserved for country house parties or Parliament, which claimed her parents for long hours or days at a time.

It was humbling to be jealous of a woman who had done nothing wrong and who was, indeed, the wronged party from any angle. Lady Violetta was kind and patient and had a sense of humor. She also had Keir as a suitor.

While Sybil was digging snow out of her ear, put there by a little boy missing his front teeth, Lady Violetta was strolling daintily, her hand around Keir’s muscular forearm.

Sybil was quite sure that Lady Violetta had never assaulted a peer of the realm with a snowball to the back of the head.

Because Sybil suddenly felt odd and awkward and did not care for it one whit, she curtsied at the couple with a cheeky and wholly unrepentant smile.

And then she hurried home, head held high, eyes stinging from the cold.