Confessions of a Scoundrel

  “A-a-” She couldn’t even seem to say the word.

  “Now jus’ wait a minute,” the butler said, huffing and puffing as if someone had insulted his honor and not just his mistress’s.

  But Lady Westforth’s reaction far surpassed his. Once she regained her breath, her mouth thinned to a single line. “A welch? I’ve never welched on anything in my life.”

  “You will be welching if you send me away,” Brand said, “for I’ve come to collect my debt.” His gaze narrowed on her thoughtfully. “You do remember our wager, don’t you?”

  Color heated her cheeks, the sudden red making her creamy skin appear even more pale. “You wish to collect your debt now? In the middle of the night?”

  “It’s not that late. Only eleven, I believe. Lady Westforth, are you a woman of your word? Or not?”

  Her proud chin lifted in the air and Brand felt an unusual stirring of appreciation. She was not only beautiful, but she was fiery, awash in passion. With her gold curls and wide violet eyes, she carried innocence like a fragrance. It wafted about her and soaked into the consciousness of her followers without their even being aware of it.

  But Brandon was more discriminating than most of Lady Westforth’s admirers and he would resist her particular brand of charm. Resist it to the death. So though he felt far from it, he grinned. “I want my kiss and I want it now.”

  “That’s a pity for I’m not in the mood to hand out kisses to men with no manners. It is rude of you to barge in here, unwelcome and uninvited.” She swept to her feet and walked past Herberts to the door. “Mr. St. John, it is time you left.”

  “No.”

  She looked at him a moment more and to his chagrin, he thought he detected a sudden hint of laughter in her eyes. All of his frustration and anger slipped away and he found himself smiling in return.

  Her lips curved in response, and their anger dissipated as one. They remained that way, smiling at one another, gazes locked, for a long moment. Then, to Brand’s surprise, Verena winked at him, whirled on her heel and left.

  “Herberts,” her voice floated in the room after her, “would you and Peters escort Mr. St. John to the door?”

  The little minx! Brand heard the fall of her footsteps on the stairs and he bolted from the room. He’d just set foot back in the foyer when a steel hand closed over his arm.

  He turned around to face the new footman. “Look, Peters. I’m not in the mood to play.”

  “’Ere now, guv’nor,” Herberts said from where he stood well behind the footman. “Oiye can’t let ye up those steps.”

  “Tell this philistine to remove his hand.”

  “Oiye wishes oiye could,” the butler said honestly. He leaned forward and said in a confidential tone, “Whot’s this wager ye’re nappin’ about?”

  “A kiss.”

  “Ah! And she won’t pay, eh? Ain’t thet just like a woman?” Herberts sighed heavily. “Ye know, if ye weren’t talkin’ ’bout m’lady, oiye wouldn’t mind ye askin’ fer a good buss on the smacker.”

  Brandon looked at Herberts with a slight sense of astonishment. “You believe I’m in the right?”

  “If ye won thet kiss fair and square, whot more is there to say?” Herberts rocked back on his heels a bit. “O’ course, since the missus is a woman, oiye’m certain it ain’t quite as simple as thet.”

  Brand stood still a moment longer, considering his options, aware of the footman’s steely grasp. It wasn’t just that damned kiss. That wasn’t what drove him to such lengths. No, he told himself, it was for Wycham. His friend was depending on him to find that blasted list. If Brand didn’t find a way into the house and soon, Wycham might grow impatient and return to town. He’d be in jail before Brand could help him.

  Fortunately, there were more ways to gain entrance to a house than through the front door. Brandon yanked his arm free from Peters’s hold, walked to the door, collecting his coat and hat as he went. As he opened the door, he turned and said in a voice loud enough to carry up the stairs, “I will be back.”

  From where she sat, hidden around the curve of the top steps, a shiver traced through Verena. He’d been furious at her dismissal, she could see it in the hard blue blaze of his eyes, in the way his broad shoulders sat so rigid and straight. She held her breath until the door slammed shut, then she walked back down the stairs.

  “Whew!” Herberts called up the stairs. “He’s a very angry man, m’lady. Whatever ye done to piss him off, oiye’d be rethinkin’ it. He’ll not be gone long.”

  Peters nodded in agreement.

  Verena managed a smile. “Hopefully, I will have time to figure out how to deal with him before he returns.” Outside, the rain lashed against the windowpanes and rattled the shutters. Verena leaned against the bottom stair railing. “Herberts, I believe I’ll finish the letter to my parents and then retire. It has been a long, long day.”

  “Aye, m’lady. Would ye like a wee dram to ward off the chill? Some brandy to warm yer bones.”

  “No, thank you.” Verena wearily made her way to the sitting room. As rough as the butler was, he had a caring streak that greatly reconciled her to his presence in her house.

  She paused by the desk. “Close and lock the doors. You needn’t wait up on me.”

  “Very well,” the butler said. “Oiye hopes ye don’t gets too angry ’bout the mess the gentleman left in the foyer. He was drippin’ like a sieve. Oiye warned him not to come in, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s left a trail o’ water wider than me arm.”

  “I’m sure it will dry by morning,” Verena said absently, looking through her note to see where she’d left off. She barely noticed the sound of the door closing or the retreating tread of the butler’s footsteps. The rain tattooed against the window, pouring so hard now that it trickled down the chimney and sputtered the fire.

  Verena dipped her pen into the ink and started writing again, but it was no good—her mind was too full of James’s lost letters, the missing list, and worst of all, Brandon St. John. She wished she hadn’t promised James that she wouldn’t see St. John alone. Though after she’d seen him, wet and furious, she had to admit that it was probably safer.

  She sighed wearily and replaced the pen in the holder. Nothing had gone well today. Even the visit to Humford’s lodgings had been a wasted few hours. The man had lived like a monk, fastidiously clean, every shirt drawer organized. It was so neat that the entire apartment had an unlivedin feel to it. She and James had searched every nook and cranny, but had found nothing.

  Verena leaned back in her chair and stretched her legs before her, mulling over the day’s events. Minutes stretched and faded. Somewhere behind her, a faint creak sounded. She tilted her head to one side and frowned. The creak sounded again, only louder this time. What was that?

  A waft of fresh air chilled her and the sound of the rain suddenly got louder. The lamp flickered as if a faint wind had tickled the flame and then went out.

  Total darkness filled the room. Verena stood, heart pounding, the hair on the back of her neck prickling with urgency. She wasn’t alone. She whirled and took a step toward the door when two huge arms wrapped about her, a large hand clapping across her mouth. Verena only managed a horrified gasp before the fingers tightened.

  “I told you I’d be back,” came a deep masculine voice.

  Chapter 12

  If I cannot be young and pretty, then I will at least be old and bejeweled.

  Mrs. Mitford to herself, as she was clasping the famous Mitford rubies about her neck

  Verena recognized Brandon’s voice instantly. She also recognized the fury in his tone. Without another thought, she bit his hand, nipping forcefully on the pad of his thumb.

  “Damn!” He yanked his hand free and shook it in the air as if trying to shake off the pain like so much dust, leaving only one arm imprisoning her.

  Verena lifted her foot and slammed it down on his instep. Thank heavens she was wearing her good French heels.

  “Argh!”
r />   She was released instantly. Verena could have made her way to the door. She could have screamed, too, and brought Herberts and the rest of her scanty staff to the rescue. She could have, she told herself as she relit the lamp.

  The sight that met her eyes was infinitely gratifying. Brandon St. John was hopping up and down, waving his hand like a child who had mashed his thumb in a doorway.

  She bit her lip. It was sad that they were at such loggerheads, for she recognized in him a kindred spirit. Life came easy to Brandon St. John, just as it came easy to Verena. It made them both a little too confident, a little short-tempered with others, and a little arrogant.

  “Oh, it’s not that bad,” she said, as he fell to the settee and grabbed his foot with his uninjured hand.

  “What kind of shoes do you have on?” he demanded, looking at his own leather boots.

  She knew him to be an honorable man. So honorable he squeaked with it. So honorable that as he looked down his aristocratic nose at her, she couldn’t help but realize that he had a point. She wasn’t his equal in any sense of the word. She’d never admit it, of course, but she knew that she was in no position to argue about virtue and honor. “I cannot believe you broke into my house like a common criminal.”

  He sucked on the pad of his thumb, his blue eyes blazing. “You have the sharpest teeth. Like a bloody ferret!”

  “Are they? I’ve never had to resort to such physical expressions to make myself clear. I told you I had no wish to kiss you tonight.”

  His eyes blazed. “You weren’t going to kiss me at all, were you?”

  She looked at the fire, wondering how he’d guessed. “Perhaps.”

  His gaze narrowed. “Liar.”

  “I am not a liar. I’m a prevaricator. There’s a difference, you know.”

  To her chagrin, he smiled. She tried not to return it and failed miserably. He really was charming in a gruff way, sitting on her settee and making it appear absurdly small. The rain had wet him through and through, his hair slicked back from his forehead, making his blue eyes all the brighter.

  The door opened and Herberts stood in the opening. “M’lady, oiye thought oiye heard voices and—what the he—”

  “Herberts!” Verena said, frowning.

  He reddened. “Sorry, m’lady. Oiye was jus’ shocked to see the gentleman still in the house.” The butler settled his shoulders and then made a show of cracking his knuckles. “Shall oiye fetch Peters and toss the bloke out the door?”

  Verena looked at Brandon. He was so wet that his clothing stuck to him like a second skin. He had to be miserable. And she did owe him a kiss. Her gaze flickered over his mouth and she found that it was really quite difficult to swallow. “No, thank you, Herberts. That will be all.”

  The butler’s mouth opened and closed twice before he managed to stutter, “Ye want me to leave ye? Alone? Wif him?”

  “Leave, Herberts. I can handle Mr. St. John.”

  “Are ye sure, m’lady? Oiye kin stay if’n ye want me to. And Peters can come an—”

  “I’ll be fine. Please leave.”

  Herberts backed slowly to the door. “Perhaps I should jus’ stay a mite and see if ye needs some refreshment. Do ye wants me to bring ye something to wet yer whistlers?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Verena said. “Close the door.”

  He sighed and pulled the door to. It had barely settled in place before he yanked it back open and stuck in just his head. “’Ere now, what was I thinkin’? Oiye fergot to mention that Mr. St. John is a wee bit damp. Perhaps oiye should bring him a cloth to dry—”

  “Herberts.” The “s” lingered an unconscionable time.

  He sighed. “Very well.” He shut the door with a disapproving bang.

  Brandon stood and limped to the fireplace. “That is the most deplorably trained servant I’ve ever seen.”

  “You haven’t met my upstairs maid.”

  “Your upstairs maid?” he said blandly, steam rising from his clothing. “I look forward to it. Perhaps we should retire there now and you can introduce me—”

  “Just stop it!” A smile trembled on her lips. “You are incorrigible.”

  “I’m determined.”

  “In this instance, it’s the same thing.” She shook her head. It was late at night, the rain creating a cozy feeling. It had been a long time since she’d shared a late-night conversation with a man. She crossed her arms, suddenly aware of how lonely she had been. Until now. “I don’t know why you persist in this. You don’t like me. You never have.”

  “I want what is owed me.”

  She eyed him for a long moment. “No. I don’t think that is it at all. If you wanted your kiss, you would have already taken it. I think you want something else.”

  Brand turned back to the fire, noting the faint steam curling from his sleeves. She was far more intelligent than he liked. “I’ve never said that I don’t like you.” She started to respond and he held up a hand. “Trust…that is another thing.”

  “What have I ever done to give you reason not to trust me? Ask your brother. Had I been of a different nature…” She shrugged. “But that is neither here nor there. I am not a woman who uses other people. I take care of me and my own. And that’s all I have ever been guilty of.”

  “Is that why you cheat at cards?”

  Her color rose. “Who said I cheated?”

  “Are you denying it?”

  “No. But I’m not confirming it, either.”

  He watched her with narrowed eyes. “I didn’t come to argue with you, you know. I came to collect what’s mine.” And she was right—he did want more than a kiss. She owed him far, far more than a simple embrace. She owed him for every cold, miserable minute he’d spent outside her house.

  She sighed, frustration evident in every line of her body. “You, sir, are abominable.”

  “And you, my dear Lady Westforth, are delectable.” He slowly crossed the room to her side. At least in that, there was some truth. She was beautiful, and the memory of her lush curves haunted him still.

  He stopped in front of her and lifted a curl from her shoulder. The silken strands slid between his fingers. Her hair was thick and heavy, surprisingly so.

  “What are you doing?” Her voice was breathless.

  “You have the most beautiful hair. It’s the color of ripe wheat.”

  She jerked away. “I refuse to believe that you broke into my house so that you could pay me compliments.”

  He dropped his hand back to his side. “You are right; I’m not here to compliment you. And not just for the kiss, either. I’m here because I want to know—”

  Her gaze darkened. “Know what?”

  “All of your secrets.”

  “Secrets? Why on earth would you think I have any secrets?” She opened her arms and gestured about the room. “Look about you, Mr. St. John. I am a simple woman. I love simple things. What could I possibly have to hide?”

  She was good, he had to admit. There was something direct and guileless about the way she spoke. He was not fooled, but he was tired and wet and miserable, chilled through and through. And beneath that weariness was a slow burn of lust, brought on from her kiss last night and kept to life by her refusal to see him. That was why he was so determined to have her. She’d thwarted him and it was not a feeling he liked.

  His gaze fell on a silver tray by the window, a bottle of amber liquid arranged with some glasses. He gestured toward it. “May I?”

  “Of course. I apologize for not asking you sooner. It’s not my habit to offer refreshments to housebreakers.”

  Brand poured himself a drink. “Would you like some?”

  “I don’t drink.”

  He grinned. “Not well, anyway.”

  She hunched a shoulder in his direction and turned away.

  Brandon carried his drink to a chair in front of the fire. “Come and join me, Lady Westforth.”

  She made no motion to join him. “I’d rather you leave.”

&n
bsp; “In this rain?” He made himself comfortable in one of the chairs.

  “Afraid you’ll melt?”

  “No, but it’s very unhealthy for devils to be cold. You might say it is against our nature.”

  Her lips quivered. “At least you admit that much.”

  “I will admit much more if you join me.” He took a sip of the liquid, sighing when it warmed a path down his throat to his chest.

  Verena walked slowly toward him, her gaze considering. “Why are you here, Mr. St. John?”

  “Right this moment, I’m enjoying my glass of brandy and the company of a beautiful woman. Later on…” He shrugged, watching her over the rim of his glass.

  “You make me nervous when you compliment me. It doesn’t ring true.”

  “What do you expect? Incriminations?”

  “No. Nothing so pleasant.”

  He smiled. “Have just one drink with me.”

  “I don’t drink,” she repeated, though more softly this time.

  “Except when playing cards?”

  “I allowed my pride to choke my good sense. Normally, I only drink a glass of wine with my evening meal. It muddles the brain.”

  “Which would be fatal in a woman who uses her brain so much.”

  She sank into the chair opposite his, eying him warily. “You are determined not to like me, aren’t you? I wonder why. Do I remind you of some other woman, one who has wronged you?”

  He frowned at her over his glass. “I am not so silly as to punish you for something someone else did.”

  “Then why do you seek to punish me at all?”

  “I don’t. I have no desire to hurt you.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  Brandon looked down into his glass. The fire reflected in the drink like red sparks in amber velvet. What did he want? He should be interested in one thing and one thing only—the truth. But if he were entirely honest, he would admit that he wanted—her. All of her. “I want the kiss you owe me.”

  “Just that one, simple kiss?”

  He nodded, meeting her gaze. Heat flared between them. It would not be only one kiss and there would be nothing simple to it. Brand’s gaze dipped to her mouth and he marveled at the soft pink of her lips.