A Scoundrel in the Making (The Marriage Maker Book 9) Read online

  He suckled harder as he caressed her stomach, her hip, then slipped his hand between them and dipped a finger into the moist folds between her legs. She gasped, wrapped the other leg around his hip, arched, and rubbed her sex against him.

  “You have driven me mad since that kiss in the hallway,” he murmured against her breast.

  Since the kiss in the hallway? She driven him mad since then? He had her in bed. Why sweet talk her? He released the breast, moved to the other, and laved it with his tongue. He blew on the nipple, and her sex tightened as the sensitive bud puckered. He was driving her mad. He removed his hand from between them and levered his member at the mouth of her channel. Abigail squeezed his buttocks as he drove inside her, hilt deep. She drew a sharp breath.

  “Did I hurt you?” he asked.

  She gave a strangled laugh. “Hardly. But if you don't take action quickly, I'm liable to hurt you.”

  He chuckled, then began rocking.

  Each stroke against her channel inched her higher.

  Reade dropped his head onto the pillow beside her head and his warm breath bathed her ear when he whispered, “You are wonderful.”

  She’d been told more times than she could count that she was beautiful. But wonderful?

  “Do you like that?” he asked, and drove deeper.

  Pleasure tightened her sex.

  She nodded against his shoulder.

  Reade gave a low laugh and again drove deep.

  He smelled so good, like almonds. Abigail kissed his shoulder. He continued to thrust. She slid a kiss up his neck then gently sucked. The salt on his skin made her want more. He groaned and hugged her tighter. His chest pressed her sensitive breasts. She wanted all of him at once. He drove deeper, faster. Abigail pulled her knees up, feet flat on the mattress, and rocked against each thrust. He shifted and kissed her. His tongue thrust inside her mouth and mimicked the motion of his cock inside her channel. Her head spun.

  Her climax erupted with such force that Abigail cried out and broke their kiss. His head dropped onto the pillow beside hers and he moved faster. Pleasure ripped through her. She wrapped her legs around his waist and he stroked more pleasure from her until, at last, he groaned, and his cock pulsed inside her.

  When he collapsed on top of her, they were both breathing hard. He drew a deep shuddering breath, rolled onto the mattress, and pulled her close. His heart thudded a fast beat against her ear.

  Gradually, the rhythm slowed, and he tucked her head under his chin. His breathing evened out. Abigail began to drift off in a relaxed haze, then jarred awake when he said, “I feel certain Lord John or any of your other suitors—including that pup I tossed out—couldn’t please you so well.” He hugged her tighter. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll prove it again.”

  Chapter Ten

  The following evening at the ball, Abigail gave thanks that Liam hadn’t appeared. What had gotten into the boy? Abigail had no idea why he wanted to marry her or what would make him think she would consider his suit. Aside from the fact he was six years her junior, he was more like a little brother than a cousin.

  Happily, Lord Chaluim openly ignored her. Typically, when on a mission, alienating anyone was a bad idea. She would love to have the opportunity to find out what Lord Chaluim and the other gentleman had been talking about when she and Lord Reade overheard them in the hallway. Worse come to worse, she would simply confront him.

  Abigail caught sight of a waiter with champagne and turned toward him. She stopped short, nearly ramming into Lord Devers.

  “Forgive me, sir.” Abigail sidestepped him, but he stepped in front of her.

  “I have been looking for you, my dear.”

  An alarm blared in her head. There was only one reason he would be looking for her. She’d really had quite enough of this nonsense for one evening. She’d fought off the advances of half a dozen overzealous suitors. She had no time for a sixty year old earl who had decided he was the answer to his money problems. No doubt he wouldn’t mind the title of marquess along with his earldom, she thought with disgust.

  “Forgive me, Lord Devers, but I am in a hurry.”

  “Nonsense.” He grasped her arm. “Surely, you have a moment to spare for me, Abigail.”

  She stiffened. “I beg your pardon. I did not give you leave to address me with such familiarity.”

  A knowing glint appeared in his eye. “Come now, there is no need to pretend with me. I heard what happened with Reade tossing that young man out of your chambers last night.” He squeezed her arm. “How many men did you have in your room?”

  She’d been the topic of more than one scandal in Paris, but in England, no hint of a scandal had ever touched her life. How likely was Mr. Russell to demand that the Marchioness of Buchman leave his party if she were to—

  Abigail faced Devers, then, in one fluid movement, rammed her knee into his groin. He released her and doubled over, wheezing.

  “Ass,” she muttered, amongst the cries of guests around him, as she hurried away.

  Abigail caught sight of Reade with Mr. Russell near the hallway on the wall to her left. He stared in her direction, a dark frown creasing his brow. Bloody hell, if Reade thought she was being mauled by another prospective suitor he would forget about getting Mr. Russell into a card game and come to her rescue.

  She gave a tiny shake of her head and telepathed that all was well. His eyes narrowed, but he turned with Mr. Russell, headed for the hallway where the card tables had been set up. Abigail drank in the sight of Reade’s broad shoulders, perfectly molded by his jacket. He was magnificent.

  Her legs unexpectedly felt like jelly at the memory of his declaration, “I feel certain Lord John or any of your other suitors—including that pup I tossed out—couldn’t please you so well.” The man was sure of himself—and with good reason. He had pleased her a second time—as no other lover had. She’d slept better than she had in ages, and without nightmares…or claret, she realized. Might he spend another night in her chambers trying to prove his prowess?

  “Lady Buchman,” a woman said.

  Abigail jarred from her thoughts and realized Lady Julia stared at her. Abigail inclined her head. “What a pleasure to see you, Lady Julia.”

  “I am surprised to see you,” she replied.

  “Really?”

  Lady Julia glanced around, then leaned close and said in a whisper loud enough to carry to the matrons sitting nearby, “It’s all the talk about how Lord Reade threw another man out of your bedchamber—and Lord Reade was naked. It is true, is it not?”

  Shock registered on one matron’s face, who leaned toward her companion and whispered.

  Abigail had rebuffed similar questions all night. She smiled coolly. “You know how gossip is. It seldom resembles truth.”

  Lady Julia gave a knowing laugh. “Lord John saw it with his own eyes. He said Lord Reade was naked as the day he was born and…shall we say, in a heightened state of arousal.”

  “Lord John is not a reliable witness,” Abigail replied.

  Julia’s brows shot up. “Why is that?”

  “He has a grievance with Lord Reade, as Lord Reade intervened on my behalf when Lord John became overzealous in his attentions to me.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Lady Julia blurted.

  “Indeed?” Abigail said. “You believe what he tells you he saw, but don’t believe what I tell you happened. This is how gossip takes hold.”

  Lady Julia stiffened. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I did not mean to offend.”

  Abigail shrugged. “For you to offend, I would have to care for you. Now, if you will excuse me, I see a friend.” She turned and left Julia staring, mouth agape.

  Abigail hurried toward the hallway where Reade and Mr. Russell had gone. Excitement buzzed in her belly. She reached the hallway and found them in the second card room. A third gentleman dealt a hand at the table where they sat with a fourth gentleman. Earlier, Reade had agreed to allow Mr. Russell to win in hopes of keeping him at the
table. Reade claimed to have a reputation for being a skilled card player. Beating him would be a coup for Mr. Russell, who, according to Reade, was a mediocre player.

  She recalled the man who’d accused him of cheating. “No one wins that many hands without cheating.”

  Reade reached for his cards and her gaze caught on his long, tanned fingers. A shiver slipped down her arms.

  Abigail whirled and headed down the hallway away from the ballroom. This was the first time in her career that she’d been distracted by a man. Thankfully, he was on her side…and in her bed.

  Bloody hell, she had to forget him.

  As planned, she first searched his private library, and found not a trace of a secret passageway or hidden rooms. Next, she searched the small parlor beside the library, and again found nothing. That left one other room on this floor: Jane Russell's bedchambers. Abigail would've been surprised to find the Honors hidden there, but couldn’t overlook any possible hiding place. To her surprise, she found no trace of a hidden door in the lady’s room. So, the lord of the castle was making sure his lady couldn’t sneak from her room to meet a lover.

  Abigail returned to the hallway, pulling Jane's door closed behind her. She glanced left toward Mr. Russell's room. The two times she'd searched the room, the search had been inadequate. She couldn't eliminate that room from doubt until she was certain no place remained where the Honors could be hidden. She’d spent an hour and forty-five minutes searching the three rooms. How much longer might Reade be able to keep Russell busy?

  Abigail took the half dozen steps to his door and tried the knob. She smiled. He’d locked the door. That interested her. She withdrew the small leather pouch from the folds of her dress and took out two lock picks. In seconds, she had the door unlocked and slipped inside. She replaced the picks, dropped the pouch into her pocket, then locked the door, and turned to survey the room. They’d searched the secretary, the nightstand, and under the bed. The passageway was located to the right of the hearth.

  Forty minutes later, Abigail was forced to admit that there was no other hidden door in either the bed chambers or washroom. Her gaze caught on the wardrobe. She'd searched the piece early yesterday, soon after her arrival. Had that been only yesterday? It seemed a lifetime ago.

  She crossed to the wardrobe and studied it. Only clothes hung inside. With a sigh, Abigail closed the door. Then paused. What about behind it? The clothes weighed very little. Could she move the closet? She went to the side, grasped the front and back, and heaved to the side. To her surprise, she was able to scoot the wardrobe a few inches away from the wall. With a deep breath, she heaved again. This time, she dragged the wardrobe far enough from the wall that she could squeeze between it and the wall. She shimmied into the space between the wardrobe and the wall, running her hand across the wall as she went, but to her frustration, found no secret door.

  Nothing was ever that easy.

  She drew a deep breath and her shoulders pressed against the back of the wardrobe. The wood gave way. Abigail slid out of the crevice, then turned to face the wardrobe and slipped back inside. She pressed against the back of the wardrobe. The back gave. She ran her fingers along the edges of the wardrobe but found no purchase which would allow her to pull out what she now believed had to be a false back.

  She scooted out from behind the wardrobe and hurried around the front. She threw open the doors, shoved aside the clothes, and crawled inside. Excitement rammed through her as she began to feel around the back. The fingers of her right hand brushed an edge. He worked her fingernails around the side of the thin wood plank and yanked forward. Wood cracked, then gave way, and she fell back against the door frame. Abigail stared, breathing hard. The state sword of Scotland lay nestled sideways in the back of the wardrobe, and on the bottom of the hidden compartment rested two linen wrapped objects that she knew had to be the scepter and crown.

  Chapter Eleven

  Reade leaned back in his chair as Douglas Russell stood. They’d played for two hours. In the end, Russell had won five pounds from him. He hated losing the money, but it kept Russell at the table for a length of time that should have allowed Abigail enough opportunity to search the rooms in Russell's private wing. She had yet to return.

  Russell's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “You played well, Lord Reade.”

  Reade angled his head. “As did you.”

  “It was sheer poetry to watch,” Lord Bingley said.

  “I was out after the first hand,” Mr. Westland said.

  “I heard he couldn't be beat,” someone said behind Reade.

  Reade lifted his brows. “No one is unbeatable, gentlemen. Not even me.”

  Russell puffed out his chest. “I got lucky,” he said.

  “Hardly,” Reade said. “You played well.”

  “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I should get back to my party,” Russell said. “By now, my wife is sure to know I spent two hours in the card room.”

  Laughter rippled through the ranks.

  “Give her the five hundred pounds you won,” someone said. “She will forgive you.”

  More laughter.

  Russell left and Reade rose. “Good evening, gentlemen.” He pushed back his chair.

  “You don't want to win your money back, Reade?” Lord John said.

  Reade gave him a cool smile. “If you are free later, perhaps.”

  John’s eyes narrowed on Reade as he passed him.

  Reade strode from the room and entered the ballroom. The ballroom wasn’t as large as some, but the crowd had grown since he'd sequestered himself in the card room. When he couldn’t locate Abigail after a ten-minute search, he also realized that Mr. Russell had disappeared from the ballroom. Good God, surely the man hadn’t made another assignation in his chambers?

  Reade returned to the hallway where the card rooms were located and continued past them to the nearest staircase.

  When he reached the third floor, he called in a low voice, “Abigail.”

  No answer. Reade crept to Russell's room, the first door on the right, pressed his ear against the door, and strained for any sound. The door abruptly opened and he jumped back. Reade sucked in a breath at the sight of Abigail holding the crown and scepter in one hand and the Sword of State in the other.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing here?” she demanded.

  Reade jarred from the trance. “My God,” he whispered.

  She stepped from the room and whispered, “Close the door.”

  He did as she asked, then faced her, eyes fixed on the sword.

  “Reade.” She shoved the sword toward him and he grasped it by the scabbard.

  He couldn’t believe it. He held the Scottish Sword of State.

  “For God’s sake,” she hissed, and he looked up.

  Abigail handed him the scepter and crown, then pulled a small leather pouch from a pocket within the folds of her gown and withdrew two—

  “Lock picks?” he said.

  She nodded as she set the pouch on top of the crown, then inserted the picks into the lock. He’d seen pictures of lock picks but had never seen any in real life, and watched in fascination as she worked the picks until a click sounded. He would have to get her to teach him how to do that.

  “Where did you find them?” he whispered, as she reinserted the picks into the pouch.

  “The wardrobe. It had a false back. If I’d looked harder yesterday, I would have found them.”

  Yesterday? Reade couldn’t help being thankful she hadn’t found them yesterday. They’d had less than a day together, but in that day he’d realized that once they finished this mess, he would woo and marry her.

  Abigail dropped the pouch into her pocket, then took the crown and scepter and nodded for him to follow. “Come. We must get to my chambers.”

  They started toward the stairs, then halted at the approach of boots on the stairs.

  They looked sharply at one another. Abigail whirled, and Reade followed. Her slippered feet made no sound,
but his boots—she veered toward the door to the left of Russell’s room. He stopped as she slowly turned the knob until the bolt disengaged. She pushed inside and Reade hurried after her. She handed him the crown, then closed the door to a slit and peered into the hallway.

  His heart pounded so loudly he feared the newcomers would hear. He glimpsed the furrow of Abigail’s brow in the instant before a man—Mr. Russell, he realized—said, “Never fear, my dear. My wife will not be upstairs for hours. She lives for these parties.”

  “You are certain?” a woman asked.

  “I would never put you in an uncomfortable position, sweet,” he replied.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps the library would be better?”

  He laughed. “You minx. You prefer a desk to a bed? Perhaps we will use both before the night is over.”

  “Oh, I did not think of that,” she said, and Reade realized the female sounded more like a young debutant than a grown woman.”

  Fury flared and he fought the urge to burst from the room and pound Russell into the carpet.

  “Please,” she said in a small voice. “We should return to the ballroom.”

  The click of a lock sounded.

  The girl whimpered. “Please, sir, take me back to the party.”

  “In due time, my sweet.”.

  “Nae, please,” she cried.

  Abigail turned to Reade and whispered, “Get the Honors to your chambers. I will meet you there.” She started to turn.

  He seized her arm. “I am not leaving you two women alone with him.”

  Russell’s door clicked shut. Abigail inched open their door and peered into the hallway.

  “Bastard,” she muttered, and opened the door.

  The girl cried out.

  They stepped into the hallway.

  Another cry inside the room was followed by a slap

  Reade shoved the Honors into her arms. “Take the Honors. I will deal with Russell.”

  Her mouth thinned. “You must learn to follow orders, Reade.”