The Rakehell’s Seduction

1 Lothbrook, England – September 1821 Ambrose Worthing was attending a country dance. The notion was laughable. He, a glorified rakehell with a distaste for country life, was currently entrapped in a bloody assembly room that could pass for a barn on better days. In fact, as he glanced around the room, he decided it most certainly resembled a farmyard at the moment, with the gaggle of society mamas squawking like geese, their turbans festooned with tall ostrich plumes. He groaned when he saw them scrutinizing him, whispering behind their fans, their eyes dancing over his form as they assessed his marital suitability. From the clever smiles he glimpsed, he knew they were ready to throw their innocent daughters at his feet. Like bloody hell. He was not about to find himself accidentally “compromising” any of the young ladies here tonight. He’d come here tonight to find one particular young woman to seduce her, to win a bet he’d made in London the previous week, and hopefully save her. He was not about to let the gathering of society mamas intimidate him into dancing with their daughters, even if they rivaled the great ancient Mongolian Golden Horde led by Genghis Khan. Many a rake had fallen under their wiles, surfacing months later to find themselves stuck with a shy chit of a girl as a wife and an obnoxious mother-in-law. At twenty-nine years old, he’d managed to weather many attempts by his friends and relatives to see him settled. If those who loved him could not bring him to the altar, no silly chits from the country would have any success either. He was a permanent bachelor, and he liked it. Marriage was not made for men like him. To be tied down with one woman for the rest of his life and suffer the trappings of home and hearth when he could be exploring the world and living? Heavens no, he would not give up his freedom for anything. A few daring matchmaking mamas separated from the crowd and walked in his direction. Damnation, even the need for a master of ceremonies to perform introductions wouldn’t stop these women. Ambrose spun on his heel, desperate to avoid conversation. If he had to listen to one more story about how well their daughters played the pianofortes or how accomplished they were at needlepoint, he’d run from the assembly hall screaming. He had met almost everyone present at the dance and had no desire to continue any of the acquaintances. He was only here because of the wager placed in a betting book at White’s. A damned fool named Gerald Langley had put down in the books that anyone who plucked the fruit of this girl’s vine would receive five thousand pounds from him. Langley was a brute with little in the way of good sense and far too much coin. Ambrose had no idea why Langley had it in for the Earl of Rockford’s daughter, but he did. After reading the bet, Ambrose had penned his name to the challenge and notified Langley he had accepted the wager. For once in his life he was trying to do the right thing by a woman. It was a bit ironic, though, that saving the woman required compromising her. But the Earl of Rockford and his father had been friends, and Ambrose felt he owed it to Rockford to win the wager and keep the lady safe from true scoundrels. No other man would take the care with her that he would and see to it that her first time with a man was a pleasurable experience. He had one month to seduce Rockford’s daughter and provide proof of this seduction in London. As the lady in question had never been to London, there was much speculation among the men at his club whether she was a diamond of the first water or a dowdy creature. The betting book listed her age as twenty-two, young enough not to be an ape leader, a nasty term for women nearing spinsterhood. Apparently Rockford wasn’t one for traditions. Any father wishing to ensure his daughter’s future would have brought her to London at seventeen or eighteen, had her presented to the queen, and then made the round of balls to hunt for a husband. Yet Rockford had not done any of that. He’d kept his daughter in the country, living a quiet life. An unplucked fruit to tempt the worst sort of men in White’s to bet upon the taking of her maidenhead for their own amusement. Normally Ambrose had little desire to compete in wagers, especially ones which involved the corruption of innocents. It was not out of some moral principle, but rather a dislike of virgins. They tended to fall in love and cling to the man who took their innocence. But after witnessing the sort of men discussing whether to take the bet that night, Ambrose decided he would do this innocent lady a favor. He’d penned his name in the books, taking up the wager, and sent a letter to Rockford, renewing their acquaintance. A letter from Rockford arrived only a few days later, inviting Ambrose to this ball and to spend a few weeks at Rockford’s home as a guest. It was the perfect opportunity for Ambrose to cozy up to the man’s daughter and see what sort of creature he would soon be bedding. If only he knew what the lady looked like. In the chaotic din full of dancing and music, he could not find a single young lady among the crush that he was willing to bed. It wasn’t that the young ladies weren’t attractive. They were, but none were to his taste. Innocent young ladies had never appealed to him. If his friend Gareth Fairfax had been there, Gareth would have been laughing at him. Gareth was stuck in his own hell—the poor fool was happily married. Married! Ambrose couldn’t think of anything more terrifying than being stuck with one woman for the rest of his life. Helen was a darling creature and perfectly suited to Gareth, and Ambrose supposed it would be not too terrible to share a bed with a woman like her. But still, to be leg-shackled? I would rather die in a thousand unspeakable ways than stand in a bloody church and tie myself to one woman for the rest of my days. “Mr. Worthing! Oh, Mr. Worthing!” Mrs. Hester Darby called out in a shrill voice. Ambrose winced and fled, ducking around dancers caught up in a lively quadrille. He narrowly avoided colliding with two men as he fell into the shelter of a doorway leading to the back gardens. If there was one woman to fear above all others tonight at this country dance, it was Mrs. Darby, a particularly determined matchmaking mama. He suspected she was the sort of woman who would knock a man out with her parasol, drag him behind a bush, and throw her daughter upon him before “discovering” the couple and announcing an inevitable engagement. He peered around the corner, relieved when he saw a clear path to escape her. If she knew anything of him at all, she would have locked her daughter away in the nearest tower and hired a fleet of fire-breathing dragons to guard her. But Ambrose’s rakehell reputation had not yet reached Lothbrook. The town was small enough that he could take ten strides and would have traveled a good majority of the only stretch of road that could be called a street in this little village. “Excuse me, have you seen Mr. Worthing?” Mrs. Darby’s voice came perilously close to where he was concealed behind a tall bush in the gardens. “Afraid not, madam. Perhaps he’s visiting the gentlemen’s antechamber,” a man answered. Ambrose couldn’t see him from his hiding spot. It was likely that the man didn’t know him, but simply didn’t wish to keep conversing with Mrs. Darby. The surest way to drive a woman off was for a man to mention seeing to nature’s call. Ambrose couldn’t help but chuckle at his good fortune. Still, it would be safe not to linger too close to the doors leading back to the dancers, just in case Mrs. Darby thought to peek into the gardens and spied him hiding like a guilty lad behind the shrubbery. With a hasty turn and quick steps, he came around the nearest corner of the bushes. Whump! He collided with someone else coming from the opposite direction. Their bodies smacked together, and the second body let out a feminine gasp of pain. They toppled to the ground. In the dim light he couldn’t clearly see the woman who lay beneath him. The woman’s full breasts pressed against his ribs, and the scent of rosewater teased his nose. “Would you—mind terribly…I cannot breathe.” The woman panted beneath him. “Oh, yes, so sorry!” He hastily rolled off her and stumbled to his feet, brushing off leaves and dirt before he bent to offer the young lady assistance. “My apologies, miss. I was not looking where I was going.” He still couldn’t see her in the dim light, but her voice was soft and husky. It made him think of bare skin, satin sheets, and soft sighs of pleasure. His body instantly reacted with arousal, and his muscles tensed. “The fault was entirely mine.” The young lady rose with his aid, her gloved hands warm in his. They moved away from the shadow of the tall hedges and into a shaft of light from the lamps near the entrance leading back into the assembly hall. The lamplight illuminated a well-formed body draped in white muslin, violets embroidered at the waist and hem. The lady herself was no great beauty by patrician standards, at least not at first glance—her nose was too pert, her chin a tad too pointed. But when he studied her face more closely, he found her features strangely fit together and she was in fact very pretty. Her blue eyes were almond-shaped rather than round pools of color. The tilt of her eyes and the languorous half-lidded gaze that seemed natural to her was dreamy, and thick sooty lashes framed them, making the blue brighter. Like staring at fresh cornflowers. It made Ambrose think of naked bodies writhing in passion amid garden blooms. As she continued to gaze softly back at him, her lips parted, and he knew that whoever bedded this woman would stare into her eyes and make love as though in a dream. He shook his head, clearing the haze of curiosity and desire. “I see I am not the only one escaping the horde inside,” she teased him. Her lips curved slightly when she spoke, as though smiling came naturally to her. It made her far prettier than he’d originally thought. Ambrose wanted to smile himself, something he hadn’t done in years. A smirk when possible, a grin where needed, or a leer when necessary—but a genuine smile was rare for him. “I couldn’t stand another minute in there,” he confessed. For a moment he forgot about the wager. It was obvious he wouldn’t find Rockford’s daughter at the dance tonight. He would have met her in the earlier introductions when he’d first arrived. He could take a moment to enjoy this woman and her company before facing the crowds inside. Would she stay out here with him and continue talking? Or would she seek shelter inside and avoid him like any smart young lady would do? She raised a lace fan and wafted it close to her cheeks, which were a little too rosy. “I don’t blame you. I can’t stand the heat when everyone starts dancing. I came outside to cool off.” The young lady backed up a step, not exactly a retreat, but Ambrose acted out of primal instinct and mirrored her movement by stepping toward her. Perhaps tonight wouldn’t be a total waste of his time. He could steal a few kisses from a few ladies until he found his quarry for the bet. It wouldn’t do him any harm to enjoy a few minutes with this enchanting creature. “As there is no one to introduce us, might I have the honor of claiming your name?” Ambrose leaned one shoulder casually on the stone wall in front of her, effectively blocking her entrance back into the ballroom. Gardens were always preferred for stolen kisses. “And allow you to create scandal?” The woman tried to sound imperious and scandalized, but she broke down into an adorable fit of giggles. Normally Ambrose hated the twittering sound of giggles, but this was entirely different. “Very well, let’s be scandalous then.” She rewarded him with a smile that hit him right behind the knees. True mirth and humor shone in her eyes, and against his better judgment he barked out a laugh. It felt…good. He’d become so jaded in recent years, he hadn’t laughed much either. “I’m Alexandra.” “Do people call you Alex, then?” “No.” A glint of merriment sparked in her eyes, but she raised one brow in challenge. He could tell she was lying about that, and she was teasing him, too. “May I?” Ambrose pushed away from the wall and straightened to his full height, moving one step closer. “You wish to call me Alex?” She leaned into him the faintest bit, her eyes half-closed as she stared at his mouth. What an easy prize she would be, but well worth the conquest tonight. “Yes,” he murmured and cupped her chin. His thumb traced the cupid’s bow of her lips, pulled them apart a little. Her shallow, panting breaths warmed his thumb and heated his blood. His c**k hardened painfully in his buckskin trousers. “And what should I call you?” Her lips moved in a luscious dance as she spoke. He was momentarily lost in visions of stealing kisses and pinning her to the wall, showing her all the wicked delights of what his hands and mouth could do while the muted sounds from the ballroom drowned her out her moans of pleasure. It was a skill he’d perfected over the years, one that made him dangerous at any dance where young ladies were left unattended by their chaperones or mamas. “My friends call me Ambrose.” “Oh?” Her nose wrinkled adorably, and he could tell she was trying to stave off another attack of giggles. “Is that your way of telling me we are friends?” He chuckled. “No, but I would certainly like to be. My full name is Ambrose Worthing.” The haze of desire vanished in between heartbeats. “Worthing!” She pulled back, trepidation and recognition flashing across her face. “You’ve heard of me then?” So his reputation had reached at least one person in Lothbrook. Perhaps this small hamlet of a village wasn’t as remote as he’d believed. Until she’d reacted, he’d begun to think he wasn’t wicked enough for his name to stretch past the outskirts of London. “Yes, I have heard of you. Your reputation precedes you.” “Oh? And what reputation is that?” He couldn’t help but want to know if she’d say it. She’d been so bold before. Would she cease to be so charming and fascinating when she was faced with a rakehell of the first order straight from the gambling hells in London? “You are a rake,” Alex announced in an accusatory voice that made him smile. “Yes. What of it?” Damned, he couldn’t keep from smiling. Her eyes had widened, and she licked her lips nervously. She knew what being a rake actually meant…and not just to her reputation. “I can’t be seen with you out here. Not alone.” Alex retreated, but Ambrose was too fascinated to let her escape. He was not a villain and would never force a woman to do anything she didn’t wish, but damned if he wouldn’t stay her long enough to steal a kiss. When she’d assumed he was just another gentleman, she’d let him touch her lips, lean in close enough for a kiss, but now she was fleeing all because of one little word…rake. He couldn’t resist the chase now that it had begun. “Alex, love, where do you think you’re going?” He caged her between his arms and the wall. She bumped into the bricks behind her, and her chin lifted as she met him with a defiant stare. “Let me go back inside.” There was steel beneath that sensual tone, and he couldn’t help but admire her for that. Not such a wilting wallflower then. “What has you so frightened? One minute we were having a polite conversation, and the next you’re fleeing simply because I told you my name.” She arched a brow. “We were having a polite conversation until I learned that you were the sort of man who could ruin me by the simple act of being alone with you. Now if you’ll kindly let me pass…” Ambrose smiled, pinning her with the weight of his seductive snare. “’Tis a pity you fear passion.” Alex scoffed, completely unimpressed by a look he’d used to break many hearts and quite a few beds. “Did you think that would work? Challenge me to stay and let you compromise me in the name of conquering my fears? I’m not some country peahen.” She shoved hard at his chest, her determination making her even more alluring. Ambrose slid an arm around her waist, pulling her against him. “I would never say you were a peahen. You remind me more of a doe. Deep, expressive eyes, sleek limbs. All you need is a proper buck, one to mount you and claim you as his with deep, powerful thrusts.” He painted the verbal picture and punctuated it with a slow roll of his pelvis against hers. A flush of red stained her cheeks, her lips parting in shock. He’d probably gone too far, but he took a strange delight in provoking this woman. “Would you like that, Alex? Do you want a man to possess you, take you hard until you scream?” His provocative words had the desired effect. She blinked at him, desire battling outrage in her eyes. Alex was a woman who craved passion but knew wanting it was dangerous. Smart girl. “You know what I want?” she demanded breathlessly. “Yes?” He pressed fully against her, his body ready to take hers. It would be so easy to lift her skirts, wrap her lovely legs around his hips, and take her here. He could silence her cries with his lips. God, he wanted that more than he’d wanted anything in a long damned time. “I want you to get out of my way.” He sensed the movement too late to stop her, and he felt the agonizing pain slice through him as her knee jutted up, a slither of silks and satins, and rammed into him, crushing his bollocks and crippling him. His throat closed with panic, and he clutched his crotch, his ability to breathe escaping him as stars danced before his eyes. “Christ!” he hissed. In his agony he barely noticed her leaving, a whisper of her dress as she pushed past him and back into the ballroom, leaving him broken and alone, holding on to the aching c**k he had a moment before been pressing against her. He rested one palm against the brick wall, gasping and trying to control the surge of shooting pain from his balls up to his chest. Bloody hell, the woman had one hell of a leg. When the pain at last subsided, he started laughing. Alex was one hell of a woman, and he couldn’t wait to get her in his bed. He would worry about the Earl of Rockford’s daughter tomorrow. Tonight he would play buck to Alex’s doe.