The Venus and the Viscount by Scarlett Scott

Chapter 6

Neville stared out the window over the Fangfoss Manor park. From his guest chamber, he had an excellent view of the gardens below, along with a good portion of the manmade pond in which he had fished. Beyond all, the River Derwent. But this afternoon, of all afternoons since he had first been in residence at this country house party, was different.

Different because something had changed.

Neville could not define the moment it had occurred.

It may have begun the day he had eavesdropped on Lady Charity’s conversation with Miss Pennypacker in the portrait gallery. It may have started that moon-gilded night in the gardens when a Roman goddess had charmed him and returned his kisses with such tempting ardor. Or it may have been, like the sudden bloom of a rose, the instant in the music room when their gazes had met and held whilst she had been singing. His scandalous Flora had the voice of an angel.

Regardless, it had happened.

Neville found himself preparing to court Lady Charity Manners.

All he had to do was locate her first.

She had been absent at dinner the night before. Nowhere to be found at breakfast. He had gone riding with the Marquess of Dorset in a desperate attempt to distract himself and seek advice.

Dorset was a rake, newly reformed by his betrothal to the lovely Lady Clementine Hammond. If anyone should know how to properly pursue a lady, it was the marquess. And Neville had determined he needed help in his quest. He had returned to luncheon and Dorset’s singularly terrible advice sounding in his head like the memorable refrain of a song.

“When in doubt, sneak into the lady in question’s chamber,” Dorset had counseled sagely.

“Why the devil would I do anything so improper?” he had demanded, outraged at the suggestion.

“Because,” Dorset had said, grinning smugly. “Ladies adore improper. Trust me on this, old chap.”

Neville had to admit that if there was any lady present at this country house party who seemed the sort to adore a gentleman who behaved in improper fashion, it was Lady Charity. But still, he had attended luncheon hoping to spy her there and take advantage of an opportunity to speak with her alone, on the fringes of the rest of the company.

No more reckless kissing in the dark.

Or reckless kissing in the library.

Or reckless kissing anywhere, for that matter.

Neville may have revised what he wanted in a wife, but he was not a completely different man. He still believed in propriety and rules and in keeping his future viscountess free of scandal. He believed in being a gentleman and behaving properly.

But how was he to do any of those things when Lady Charity remained conspicuously absent from the festivities? His mind swirled with questions as he gazed down, unseeing, at the park below.

Was she avoiding him?

What if Dorset was right?

Shouldhe seek her in her chamber?

His mind knew the rational answer to all these queries. However, all he could think about was seeking her out. The rest of the house party was engaged in various entertainments or returned to their chambers to rest and then dress for dinner. He had time aplenty until the gong announcing the next meal rang through the manor house.

All he had to do was muster the courage to seek out Lady Charity. Or the stupidity. He was not certain which he would require more.

Courage, he told himself.

And then he forced himself from his chamber. Taking great care to avoid being seen, he moved through the complex maze of halls that was Fangfoss Manor in search of the guest chamber door bearing Lady Charity’s name.

Just when he was about to surrender to failure, he found it.

With a glance over his shoulder and down each length of the hall, he knocked.

“Come,” she called.

Hastily, Neville entered, closing the door at his back. Could it be that sneaking about at a house party was this easy? He had never thought to try.

“My lord!”

Lady Charity’s shocked exclamation drew his mind from his thoughts and his gaze across the chamber to where she lounged on a bed, a book in hand. Her hair was unbound, the golden waves cascading down her back and framing her lovely face. She was wearing a dressing gown which was quite modest, but without her voluminous skirts and bustle, the generous flare of her rump was on display.

He had to steal himself against the sudden, overwhelming rush of lust that hit him.

“Lady Charity.” He bowed as if they were in a drawing room.

What was the protocol for arriving unexpectedly in the bedchamber of a lady to whom one was neither betrothed nor wed? Neville had never needed to consult it before. Damn Dorset. This truly was a terrible idea.

Lady Charity thrust her book aside and scrambled from the bed, going to great efforts to shake out her dressing gown and make certain she was properly covered. He caught a glimpse of her calves and ankles, and the enticing swells of her breasts beneath her dressing gown drew his eye.

“Why have you come to my chamber?” she asked, thrusting her hair over her shoulders.

Could it be that she was fretting over her appearance? Did she not know how astoundingly lovely she was?

Neville recalled her question, which was not an irrational one. He searched for an answer. He could hardly tell her he had come to her chamber upon the advice of the Marquess of Dorset, could he?

“What did the cook do to the man who disliked mutton?” he asked instead of answering her question, quite out of sorts now that he had landed himself where he wished to be.

Lady Charity’s lips pressed together in a thoroughly inviting pout as she appeared to give his query a great deal of thought.

“She lambasted him?” she guessed at last.

He could not quell his smile or the rush of warmth in his chest. “Yes.”

She bit her lip, then gave him a smile. “At last I have arrived at a correct answer. Now I must have mine for the question I asked of you. Why have you come here?”

His joy was to be abridged, it would seem.

“I wished to speak with you,” he managed, feeling awkward.

Part of him wanted to charge forward and take her in his arms and part of him wanted to retreat and forget all about this nonsense idea of being improper.

Her brows rose as she glided forward, the hem of her dressing gown flitting about her ankles. “Could you not have spoken with me elsewhere?”

“I would have, but I have been unable to find you all day.” He clasped his hands behind his back to keep from giving in to the urge to reach for her.

A charming flush stole over her cheeks as she stopped before him, bringing with her that sweet scent he had come to expect. The scent that haunted him when she was not near.

Her bright-blue eyes burned into his. “I had an aching head.”

Concern for her instantly shot through him. “You did? Forgive me. I did not suppose you were feeling ill.”

She bit her lip, considering him, her expression torn. “That was a lie, my lord. I must beg your forgiveness for telling it. The truth is that I am not ill and my head is perfectly fine. I merely needed some time alone to…reflect on my thoughts.”

Her revelation gave him pause. Had she been avoiding him? Damn it, why was courting a lady so deuced complicated? Every woman he had known in his past had been easy to woo. But then, he had made a careful study of erotic treatises, and the ladies in question had been experienced widows. This was different. He was attempting to win a future wife, and everything he had come to Fangfoss Manor believing he knew about both what sort of woman he wanted at his side and how he would set about courting her had been dashed to bits.

“Your thoughts?” he asked, hoping she would pity him and share more.

“Yes,” she answered, and then her gaze dipped to his mouth.

He felt the sear of her stare as powerfully as any kiss. Drawn to her in a way he could not deny, he took the final step that brought them almost flush against each other. Without the barrier of her elaborate gowns and underpinnings, he had his first glimpse of her true figure. The combination of her proximity, the way she had looked at his lips, and the way her dressing gown clung to her curves sent another raw surge of need through him.

He lowered his head, bringing their lips closer. “Have you decided to admit it then?”

Her tongue traced over that pink, lush fullness. “Have I decided to admit what?”

“That you are Flora.”

She blinked. “You know very well that I am.”

Surprisingly, her admission did not feel as pleasing as he had supposed it would. Perhaps because he had worked to earn it for days only for her to offer it so readily. Without fight. Or perhaps because a Lady Charity Manners who was bereft of her customary fire was alarming.

Why, she had yet to refer to him as Wilty.

“Are you certain you are feeling well?” He frowned down at her, wondering if there was indeed some sort of ache in her head, and if she was merely being stalwart because of his uninvited presence in her chamber.

A small smile quirked that tempting mouth upward. “Why?”

“You do not seem yourself.”

The smile faded. “I do not feel like myself. Ever since…”

Her words trailed off.

“Ever since,” he prodded, reaching out to smooth a tendril of hair from her cheek.

It was all he would allow himself. She had not asked him to meet her here, and despite the fires of all-consuming hunger raging within him, he was a gentleman. He had principles.

“Ever since William Shakespeare kissed me in the moonlight, I have not felt myself,” she said, shattering his composure and his restraint both. “Your rash is looking much better. I can scarcely see it now.”

Her fingertips gently glided over his philtrum, lingering there.

Do not take her in your arms and carry her to the bed, he cautioned himself.

You are still a man of honor.

But the rampant ache in his ballocks suggested otherwise, as did the rise of his cock. His promise to himself that he would not indulge in any further reckless kisses with her fled.

He kissed her fingers instead, absorbing the warmth of them, the silken smoothness. “The cream worked wonders. Thank you.”

“My lord?”

He delivered another chaste press of his lips to her bare skin. “Do you think you might call me Neville?”

“Neville, then.” She traced the periphery of his mouth, then trailed her touch around the back of his neck, her fingers dipping into the hair at his nape.

Why did his given name in her husky voice make him catch fire?

He sucked in a breath, daring to place a hand on the sweet curve of her waist. “Yes, my dear?”

“Kiss me.”

Her boldness was not at all repellent. It pleased him. She pleased him.

With his free hand, he cupped her face, marveling at the softness of her skin. She was so feminine, so perfectly imperfect. He slanted his mouth over hers. There was something inherently decadent about kissing her in her chamber, alone, a bed not twenty paces away. Something about the forbidden that heightened his awareness. She threaded her fingers in his hair, grabbing a fistful and tugging, moving his mouth to where she wanted it.

He shifted as she wished, and when her tongue teased at his lower lip, he sank his tongue into her mouth in turn. Desire was furious and hot, rushing over him, licking him with the force of a thousand flames. He was burning from the inside out.

She made a sweet sound of longing, and that spurred him on. The fine thread of his control snapped. He had to have this woman. She was meant to be his. She was nothing he thought he wanted, and yet, she was everything he desired.

They kissed and kissed, tongues and teeth mingling and mating and nipping. They kissed until his lips grew tired. Until his longing for her had his cock rigid and pulsing in his trousers with the need for release. His reaction to her was stronger than it had been that day in the gallery. Stronger than it had been in the gardens and the library. Far stronger than it was when he lay awake at night, gripping and stroking himself to thoughts of her.

All the flowery phrases he might utter had fled his mind. So, too, any attempts at courting. Something else had taken over. His base lust and Charity herself.

She was the first to break their kisses and reach for his hand.

“Come,” she said, tugging him across the chamber.

He should deny them both. Neville knew where she was leading him. But his feet were moving. He was not thinking clearly. Indeed, he was not certain he would ever be capable of clarity again. Not with all the desire for this woman fogging his mind.

Something deep within told him a lifetime with her would be worth the trade.

They reached the bed as one. More kisses, his hands everywhere, traveling over fabric and barely shielded curves. He grasped her rump in his hands and lifted her to the bed. She caught his necktie and pulled him atop her. What could he do but go where she wanted, do as she wished? She made him mad with wanting her.

Pulling his lips from hers, he told her so.

She rolled to her back, and he went with her, atop her, his hips sliding with ease between her parted thighs. He braced his arms on the counterpane, taking a moment to drink in the sight of her, golden hair fanned out in a luxurious cloud, lips swollen and dark from his kisses, eyes drunk with desire.

“You make me mad as well,” she said, breathless. And then she kissed his neck above the collar of his shirt.

Ah.

He liked that. More than liked that.

“Mmm,” he groaned into her throat as he kissed a trail of his own there.

She was so delicate, so soft. She smelled delicious. He needed to end this before things progressed too far. And he would, he promised himself. But first…

First…

Her fingers brushed over the fall of his trousers. Hesitant initially, just the merest brush. He stiffened, stilling. The ability to think, to complete his thoughts, had been vanquished by her touch.

Her wicked mouth continued its exploration, all the way to his jaw. She nipped him, the minx!

And he liked that, too.

His hips surged into her questing touch. He knew he should not, but his body was beyond his control. He was primal. Desperate. Searching, seeking. Her touch grew bolder. Firmer. Her fingers rubbed over his straining length. On a hiss, he jerked away, positioning his body lower, pressing his cockstand into the mattress so he did not embarrass himself by spending in his smalls.

“Have I displeased you?” she asked, sounding confused.

“The opposite,” he ground out, attempting to reassure her. “You have pleased me too well. I do not dare go too far.”

Although, the moment the words emerged from him, he realized how hypocritical they were. He was in her bed, Charity clad in nothing but a dressing gown with possibly a chemise beneath. They were not married. Not even betrothed yet. And moments ago, her hand had been on his cock. Stroking. This was sinful and wrong and decidedly not the proper order of things.

So why did it feel so good, so right? And why could he not seem to stop himself, regardless of all the rules clamoring to be heard in his head?

He clenched his jaw, attempting to stave off a new wave of desire.

“What if I want you to?” she asked.

He struggled to make sense of her query. “What if you want me to what?”

“Go too far.” She rolled her hips against his, the wanton gesture filling him with more fire. “What if I want you to take me?”