Page 65 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

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.