Page 22 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

“Exactly. And now I must undo it. Be a wallflower and dried-up, desperate spinster and all that.” She glanced at Priya. “Please tell me it was worth it?”

Priya smiled slowly “We will make sure of it.”

Amandine’s idea of a restrained birthday celebration involved a fountain of champagne pouring from the pitcher in the hand of a marble statue of a nymph. There were flowers, music, and circulating delicacies on gold platters. There was dancing, because Lady Wentworth could not abide an evening without dancing.

And, of course, there were fireworks to rival royal celebrations, from Versailles to St. James’s Palace.

Londoners gathered in the streets on the earl’s birthday because everyone knew the fireworks would be visible all the way to the river.

There was every luxury, every entertainment, every extravagance.

There were marquesses and dukes and a princess.

But no Keir.

By the time the fireworks were ready, Sybil had taken several turns around the house, and still no Keir. Sophie was in attendance with an elderly chaperone, despite the fact that she had not yet had her coming out. It was no great surprise Keir had not accompanied her—he only seldom crossed the threshold of the Taunton residence, especially if Sybil was at home. Anything to be sure no one linked their names together. He was careful, honest, rule-bound.

Lonely.

She knew it, even if he did not. She tasted it in every kiss, saw it in every glance.

She ought to be a great deal more furious about it, but mostly she was confused. He kept everyone at bay by choice. The day his mother died giving birth to Sophie was the day he had changed. He went from a lad who climbed trees with her to a young man who schooled his every expression and spoke very little. Even she had not been able to needle anything out of him, and she was very, very good at needling him.

But she was not Lady Sybil, merely Miss Taunton.

And he was the heir to a marquess, even if he had none of the usual lesser honorary titles because his father would not give them up.

But some things had not changed.

Sybil was not going to wait around for him. He needed to be dragged out of his cave once in a while.

And she needed him.

She did not want to need him, but she had learned long ago that that had very little bearing on the matter.

Sybil slipped from the crowded house, skirting the men congregating in the back garden, shouting to each other about gunpowder and distance. She knew every inch of pathway and the brittle lawn spiked with hoarfrost. The crack in the wall at the very back, behind the plum tree, had never been repaired. In fact, it had widened considerably during the years she and Keir used it as a thoroughfare.

She climbed through it, knowing to duck so that she did not bash her head on the oak tree on the other side. Montgomery House was dark save a candle burning in an upstairs window. The household staff were gathered in the mews between the houses, waiting for the fireworks. They did not see Sybil as she crossed the formal garden’s white gravel paths. She felt Keir standing at the glass door, watching her, before she even saw him. It was always like that. That had never changed, even when everything else had.

He stepped back when she opened the door, neither of them saying a word.

He held her gaze for a long, long moment.

Then he exhaled roughly and reached for her, hauling her up against him, his mouth closing over hers. She was already kissing him back. The hunger they hid from the world, even from each other, would not be ignored for long. It was madness.

And it was glorious.

The kiss was urgent, desperate. All consuming. Heat washed through her, expectant, eager. Impatient. He walked her backward through the parlor, still kissing her, still tasting her, right into a small music room no one ever used. He lifted her onto a table, stepping between her knees in a decisive move that made her moan. His hardness pressed against her, sending sparks into her belly.

There were still no words, none needed, none wanted. Only hands and teeth and mouth sucking at the tender skin behind her ear. He dragged his hands up her legs, widening her thighs, fingertips moving over her stockings to her bare skin, up, up, until he finally, finally reached her heated center, wet and swollen just at the thought of him.

He parted her lips, gliding thick fingers over her bud once, twice, and then plunging into her heat. She gasped, writhing against him. He always knew just how to touch her, just how to wring every ounce of pleasure from her body in the brief, furtive moments they allowed themselves. She rubbed her palm over the swell of his cock, gripping it through his breeches.

But he did not stop, not for a second, not even when he groaned into her neck. His fingers kept at their work, stroking her, curling inside to reach that sensitive spot that made her eyes close and her breath stutter. Again and again until her thighs quivered, until the pleasure coiled and tightened and then released, wave after wave of sensation.

She was still panting, her pulse racing as she helped free him from the confines of his breeches. He was hard and swollen for her, the tip of his cock glistening. She curled her hand around him, pumping as she drew him nearer, until she could drag it through her slick folds. His eyes darkened. She urged him closer, demanded it.

He slid through her wetness, the stretch of her body accommodating her stinging in a delicious way. His breath was harsh and rough in her ear. He splayed his big hand over her spine and took her weight while angling her so she could take more of him. Her head fell back, and she gasped at every thrust. She was so full, so anchored to him. She wanted more—she always wanted more.

He plunged deeper, slower, every stroke deliberate. Another climax began to build as she answered thrust for thrust, moan for moan. When it streaked up her thighs, she thought she was seeing exploding colors, but it was only the fireworks through the glass. They were bathed in flashing, jewel-toned lights as Keir gritted his teeth, refusing to alter his pace until she came again, and then he pulled free and released into the handkerchief he had clawed from his pocket.

They shuddered against each other, foreheads pressed close, eyes shut.

All without a single word passing between them.

As usual.