Page 15 of Seduced by a Scoundrel (The Spinster Society #3)

K eir heard the crack and something inside him cracked as well. His entire body reacted, already on painful alert since Sybil had casually strolled into his house and declared she had been taken off the damned street. And now even more on alert standing so close to him in the soft shadows as her lips parted on what he hoped was simply the word “yes.”

Instead: a rock, a broken window, a shot of cold fear down his spine.

At least, thank God, he was close enough to seize her up in his arms, if not exactly in the way he would have preferred. As he didn’t know immediately that it was a rock and not a musket ball or a gunpowder bomb, he had her tucked under his body before his brain could fully process what was happening.

She squeaked. He glanced down, making certain that every part of her was shielded by his body. He had the foresight to cradle her head when he tossed her down onto the floor. He was abruptly aware that gentlemen did not toss ladies onto the floor, no matter the plush quality of the hand-knotted carpets. Sybil blinked up at him, a flush on her cheeks, her breath startled from her lungs. Unharmed. Thank God.

He let out his own breath, every muscle still tense. “Are you hurt?”

“Not a bit,” she assured him. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Your face is funny.”

“Thanks very much.” He frowned. “I don’t know what to say to that.” That thought was a constant companion when they were together, and he found he did not mind it. He had missed it, in fact.

The attacks on her person, he minded very much.

“Goodness,” she said. “That lady earlier was quite right. You do growl.”

He eased off her purely to assess any remaining danger and because he did not wish to crush her. Not because he wished to be anywhere else, because he most certainly did not. His heart thundered in his chest as he helped her to her feet, tucking her behind him, where she, naturally, did not remain. “Sybil, stay behind me.”

He growled it, of course.

“Someone threw a rock through our window!” She didn’t weep or flutter. Not his Sybil. Instead, she swore like a sailor. A drunk sailor on leave. A pirate. He knew several men who considered themselves worldly and debauched who would have blushed. He might have also if he wasn’t occupied with making sure she was safe.

Nothing else was acceptable.

He was peering out the window as the footman burst through the door. Keir was gratified to see him wielding that dagger. “Bastard took off through the garden and over the fence into the park,” Keir said. “I can see his bloody footprints.”

The footman nodded. “I’ll follow.”

Keir would have dearly loved to join him, if only to tear that miscreant limb from limb. But the thought of leaving Sybil alone made him physically ill.

“I doubt he’ll find anyone,” Sybil muttered, bending to pick up the rock. “The very reason we are on the edge of the Park is because it affords so much space and privacy.”

Keir batted her hand away. “Give me that.”

“It’s just a rock.”

“So you say. But I don’t know of many drawing rooms that have rocks thrown through their windows.”

“You do not know terribly interesting people, then.”

“I think you might be right about that,” he said, examining the rock, which was just that: a rock. There was, however, a note tied round it with string.

Sybil peered around his shoulder to read it. “ You were warned. ” She scoffed. “That’s rather uninspired.”

Keir wrestled the waves of fury building inside his ribcage. “Who would do this?”

Sybil shrugged. “Who knows?” she asked, airily. So airily it set his teeth on edge.

“Sybil Taunton.”

“Keir Montgomery.”

He was growling again. “Explain.”

“Oh, I thought we were just saying each other’s names.”

The urge to toss her over his shoulder and take her away was very nearly overwhelming. He exhaled through his nose. Someone had once told him it was calming. That someone was used to dealing with the aftereffects of war and street riots. Not Miss Sybil Taunton.

A little deep breathing was not enough. Not nearly enough.

“Sybil, what is this house, really?”

“Just a house.”

“Try again.”

“It’s a… finishing school.”

“Sybil.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Yes?”

“Exactly how daft do you think I am?” She opened her mouth to reply, then snapped it shut when he tilted his head. “Careful.”

She sniffed. “Well, you did ask.”

“My mistake.”

“Just so long as we are clear on that point.”

He had never wanted to spank someone and kiss them senseless at the same time. Strangling was also not out of the question. “Are you going to tell me the truth?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

He sighed. “Well, I suppose that’s something.”

“That’s it?” She looked up at him suspiciously. The firelight glimmered in her hair. And over the plain dress he wanted to strip from her body. She ought to wear only the very best silks, muslins, velvets. Or better yet, nothing at all.

“If we’ve established that I am not so daft as to believe this is a finishing school, then let us also assume that I am not so daft as to think Sybil Taunton can be forced into anything.”

“What a lovely thing to say,” she beamed.

“I think you might be the daft one.”

“That’s less lovely of you.” She shrugged one shoulder. “But also very likely.”

The footman returned with snow in his hair and a disgruntled expression, and a second footman carrying a plank of wood. “No luck,” he said. “Footprints got lost in the mess out there.”

“As expected,” Sybil said. “It’s not your fault.”

“I’ll send word to Mr. Gallagher.”

“It can wait until morning.”

“With respect, Miss Taunton, he would string me from the nearest lamppost by my insides.”

“Fair enough.”

The second footman had already begun nailing the plank over the broken window. Sybil shivered at the cold wind finding its way inside. Keir had not noticed right away—he was boiling with anger and the sudden desire to burn down London. Cursing himself, he herded her away from the window. “Come on, then.”

“What? Where?”

“You’re cold.” He nudged her up the stairs, noting the paintings on the wall, mostly of women, like Judith slaying Holofernes, or the Furies, also holding the decapitated heads of men who had wronged them. Joan of Arc watched them from the landing, her eyes glowing and otherworldly. “Where’s your chamber?”

“Not that one—that belongs to Matilda and Emmeline. I’m just here on the left.”

He marched inside, added coal to the grate, made sure the fire was burning, and then marched back out again, very carefully not looking toward the bed where he was desperate to imagine Sybil sprawled out wearing nothing but her stockings. To actually have the luxury of time when he got his hands on her.

He snagged one of her chairs and set it down in the hall. It was drafty and shadowy and would still afford him a far better night’s rest than his own feather bed and roaring fire too many streets away. Sybil just stared at him, still standing in the doorway. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m getting comfortable.” He sat back in the chair, praying it wouldn’t snap under him.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” she pointed out. “I’m perfectly safe here.”

He opened one eye, calm. Deeply incredulous. “Do you really think I’m going to leave you alone?”

“But…”

“Out of the question, Sybil.”

“There are several armed footmen just downstairs.”

“Not good enough.”

She watched him for a moment, nibbling on her lower lip in a way that made him hard enough to wonder if he was doing himself an injury. If he would make it through the night.

“You could… come inside,” she suggested softly. “I know we don’t usually…”

He took too long to answer because he wasn’t entirely sure she had actually spoken or if he had conjured it up out of sheer desperation and want.

“Unless”—she flushed, clearly embarrassed—“you don’t want me,” she added in a mildly horrified whisper. “Not really. Not like this.”

He only stared at her.

“It’s fine,” she rushed on, forcing a smile. “It’s only when we can’t help ourselves. Extenuating circumstances, as you said. Perfectly understandable. I’m not… That is. It’s fine!” Her smile was too wide, too bright.

“Extenuating circumstances?” he echoed because clearly he had lost his hearing or else she had lost her mind.

“You don’t owe me an explanation.” She gripped the door, preparing to shut it in his face. Plotting her escape.

When he grabbed the door, she struggled against his grip but it did not budge. Not one centimeter. The idea of not wanting her was so absurd that he could only glower at her while he fought every instinct that begged to prove her wrong. Very, very wrong. His voice was low and rough and felt ripped from him when he demanded: “You think I don’t want you?”

She swallowed.

“Sybil,” he stated calmly, “I have wanted you for days, months. Bloody years . All I do is want you, with every single breath. It is the thing I was put on this earth to do. Why do you think that every time I swear to stay away from you, I fail?”

Her lips parted, torturing him.

He stepped closer, crowding her until her bottom hit an ornamental table. He kicked the door shut behind him, not taking his eyes from her. Her intake of breath shuddered, soft, tempting. He wanted to drink it from her mouth. He did not usually allow himself the indulgence of staring at her.

“You think I don’t want you?” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. It was a promise. Almost dangerous. “You have no idea the things I want to do to you. Even now. Even after all the times we have found each other in secret.”

He was so close now and still not close enough, his mouth barely touching her cheek as he whispered into her ear. The smell of her soap and her warm skin tickling his nostrils. Her breasts brushing against his chest as she breathed, but otherwise still as a deer in the woods. It was the most delicious kind of torture. They were usually already burning up by now.

“I want to put my mouth to every part of your body, each and every single night like a prayer. I want to take you against this wall. In a bed, on a chair. In the goddamned carriage. I want you naked for days. For weeks . So I can finally, finally , take my goddamn time.”

Her eyes were wide, her cheeks pink. He took one step back, another. His chest felt too tight now that his body was too far from hers. Would she tell him to leave? Call one of her footmen? This was beyond impropriety. This was not being overcome. This was choosing .

No more games. No more hiding.

Her smile was no longer bright and forced. It was instead the very epitome of temptation. Her voice, stunned and curious and so damned sultry, might actually kill him on the spot.

“Then why aren’t you touching me already?” she whispered.

He swore. Commanded his body to stay where it was. His cock pressed against the placket of his pants. “Because this has to be your decision. Eyes open.” He curled his hands into fists so he would not reach for her. It would be different this time. They would have words. Promises. Everything. “Say yes, Sybil,” he murmured. “God, please say yes.”

She tilted her chin up. “Keir?”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

And then she launched herself at him.