Notorious Pleasures (16 page)

He laughed sharply, drowning out her words. “Yes? As a
friend
, what did you think would happen when you took me there? I’d gaze at those tiny girls and have a sudden revelation? Perhaps give all my worldly goods to the poor and become a monk?”

He sat forward. “Listen, and listen well, my lady—I
like
who I am and what I do. I’m an unrepentant rake who makes illegal gin. Don’t think you or anyone else can change me—even if I wanted to be changed.”

She pursed her lips and cocked her head, staring at him silently. Anger was rising in her as well.

He returned her stare until the silence seemed to irritate him. “What?”

“You, my lord, are not nearly as reckless—or as bad—as you would have me believe.”

“What in God’s name are you babbling about?”

“Your reputation.” She waved a hand. “Your rakishness. You’ve let all of London think that you left Cambridge on some feckless whim when in fact you left to help your family. You lead others to believe that you live the life of a libertine, without care or worry, when in fact you
work
for your family’s sake.”

He laughed incredulously. “In case it has escaped your memory, I was in the act of bedding a married woman when we met.”

She looked away, that vision making her even angrier somehow. “I never said you were
perfect
. Just not as damnable as you let others believe.”

“Is that so?”

She tilted her chin and stared him in the eye. “Yes.”

He smirked nastily. “What about my dear brother’s late wife?”

Her heart began to beat faster. The carriage was so confining, and his temper was a nearly visible haze of red between them. “What about her?”

“The whole world knows I seduced her under my poor brother’s nose, and had she not died in childbirth, along with the babe, no doubt I would’ve fathered his future heir.”

“Did you?” she asked softly.

“Did I what?”

“Did you do all those things the world and your own brother think you did?”

For a moment he stared at her, wild and grief-stricken, and she held her breath, waiting for his answer.

Then he slowly shook his head. “No. God, no.”

She leaned forward. “Then why let everyone believe such an atrocious lie? Why pretend to be worse than you are?”

“I’m not—” he began, but she wasn’t done questioning him yet.

“Why?” she demanded fiercely. “Why continue in this dreadful gin business? You are better than this, Reading.”

“What god gave you the right to sit in judgment over me?” he asked low and awful. “Oh, but I forget: You consider yourself more virtuous than the rest of us mere mortals. You are Lady Perfect, arbitrator of other people’s sins, an incorruptible maiden colder than graveyard granite in January.”

She gasped, unable to speak for a moment. Did he really see her thus? As a chilly, self-righteous virgin?

“How dare you?” she whispered, and couldn’t help the tears that flooded her eyes.

“Damn you.”

Her vision was blurred, so she didn’t see his movement, but she was suddenly across the carriage, half sprawled on his lap.

“I dare,” he muttered, “because I’m selfish and black-hearted and vain. I dare because you are what you are and I am what I am. I dare because I cannot otherwise. I’ve lived too long without bread or wine, crawling desperate in a lonely, barren desert, and you, my darling Lady Perfect, are manna sent directly from heaven above.”

His lips were on hers, urgent and hot. Oh, Lord, she had not known how much she missed his kisses! His mouth tasted of need too long suppressed, but where he might’ve been rough with her, he was instead gentle.

Very
gentle.

His lips pressed against hers, his tongue licking at the corners of her mouth.

“Let me,” he pleaded even as she opened her lips.

He canted his face, pulling her closer, his tongue sliding into her mouth. His beard scratched against the soft skin of her chin, but she didn’t care. She suckled his tongue, drawing on it as if it were the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted.

“Let me,” he murmured again, and she felt his broad hand on the bare skin just below her neck.

He stroked her as if gentling a kitten, softly, expertly, his hand drifting lower. All her awareness was centered on that hand, on his fingers drawing nearer to the tip of her breast. Her breasts felt tight and heavy in anticipation, and she waited with bated breath for him to touch her. He bit suddenly at her lower lip, distracting her, and then—oh, heavens!—his fingers slid beneath her bodice.

She gasped, feeling his hot skin as he stroked over her hardened nipple. He spread his hand, trapping the tip between his first and second fingers. When he squeezed, she felt the sudden jolt between her thighs.

“Shhh,” he murmured, quieting the moan she’d made. “Let me.”

She looked and saw that he’d pulled her bodice down, exposing one nipple above her stays. He muttered something, working at the laces of her bodice, and then both breasts were exposed.

For a moment he merely stared down at her, her soft skin framed by his big, tanned hands, his long fingers playing with her nipples possessively.

“Sweet, so sweet,” he murmured. “Let me taste them.”

He looked at her, and his gaze was feverish, his green eyes gleaming like a demon. That was why she agreed—it must be why—because she could only nod at him.

And then his mouth was where no man had ever touched her. His tongue stroked across one naked nipple, wet and faintly rough at the same time. She had no idea she was so sensitive there. He took her flesh into his mouth—tenderly, reverently—and she jumped. He pulled strongly, the sensation so exquisitely sweet it verged on painful.

She looked down dazedly, watching his white wig against her breast. This was too intimate an act to be done in a carriage fully clothed. She wanted a private part of him, too, if only a little bit. She pushed aside his wig, pulling it off his head and throwing it to the seat. He never stopped his ministrations, only moved to the other nipple.

Under the wig, his hair was dark and thick, shorn short, almost like fur. She ran her hands over his scalp, flexing her fingers, feeling his hair, warm and surprisingly soft. She closed her eyes in bliss. He was pinching her first nipple between his thumb and finger as he suckled on her other breast. A fire was building at her center, hot and uncontrollable.

“Touch me,” he whispered against her breast.

“I… I am,” she answered.

She opened her eyes and saw him rub his cheek against her cherry-red nipple. She swallowed at the erotic sight, at the sweetly rough sensation of his unshaven cheek on her sensitive flesh. His eyes were bright and green, watching her, demanding something.

“Not there,” he said, and caught her hand, drawing it down between them. Her skirts concealed his lap, and he pulled her fingers underneath, fumbling with his other hand, until suddenly—startlingly—she touched naked flesh.

Her gaze flew to his.

His smile was rueful, yet strained. He looked upon her bare breasts, but what she held, naked, in her hand was hundreds of times more intimate.

“Do you feel me?” he rasped.

She licked her lips, staring into his face. “Yes.”

“Stroke me.” His eyes half closed. “Please.”

She flexed her fingers, exploring this foreign, hot flesh. It was so hard it didn’t seem humanly possible. Yet the skin was tenderly soft. She wrapped her hand about him, and his palm closed over hers, strong and unbearably familiar. He showed her how to slowly stroke up until she touched the wide, slick head. She caressed it, feeling the spongy flesh, the tiny indent at the very tip. He made a sound, almost of pain, and then he seized her hand and brought it down the thick stalk again. It was so much longer—so much
bigger—
than she’d ever dreamed.

“Please,” he moaned. “Please.”

He turned his head and licked across her nipple before gently closing his teeth over the tip. She gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder. He worried her nipple, then let it go to kiss it softly.

“Stroke me,” he gasped, and let her hand go.

She did, pulling up over that hard flesh, hidden beneath her skirts. That part of him that made him a man.

“Like this?” she whispered, low and intimate in the rocking carriage. Outside, London passed by. Inside she held a man’s penis in her palm.

“Yesss,” he hissed before tonguing her other nipple. “Exactly like that.”

She looked down and saw herself, displayed before him, a wanton feast, her nipples red and swollen, so sensitive his every touch made her moan. Her hand moved beneath her skirts, and she wondered at her own daring. Perhaps this was a dream, a wicked fantasy come to life in the middle of the day in her own carriage. She stroked a man’s bare cock—
Reading’s
bare cock—to bring him carnal pleasure. She watched his face, shining with sweat, the intent look he bent upon her nipples, and the breaths that made his great chest expand and contract. It occurred to her that she might never share a moment as intimate as this again with another human being.

His big hands were on her breasts, and he pinched both her nipples at once. She bit her lip at the pleasure-pain, a tear slipping down one cheek. This was real. This was something outside of everyday bland interactions and rote conversation. His mouth was on hers, open and wild, and his hips were thrusting, moving his cock in her hand in an animal rhythm. He squeezed her poor engorged nipples again, pulling at them at the same time. And she
felt
.

She felt alive.

She arched, pushing her breasts into his hands, sucking on his tongue, and feeling an unstoppable rush of pure, white pleasure through her body. And at the same time, as if in sympathy, the male flesh in her palm jerked and gushed hot liquid between her fingers. She pulsed as he pulsed, shuddered as he shuddered, and she didn’t want it to end.

When she finally opened her eyes, she was appalled and amazed at the same time.

Green eyes watched her face, lazy and satisfied, and very, very male. For a moment all was peaceful with the world.

And then she remembered. “Dear God. Thomas is to meet me at my house for luncheon.”

Hastily, he searched his coat pockets and found a handkerchief. He took her hand from beneath her skirts and began wiping his spill off of her fingers.

She snatched her hand away. “I… I can do that.”

He raised his eyebrows but let her take the handkerchief. He put himself to rights and watched as she finished scrubbing her fingers and then wrinkled her nose at the handkerchief.

“I’ll take that,” he said.

She nodded and fumbled with her bodice. “Please turn away.”

A sardonic reply was on his lips, but he thought better of it. He turned to view the closed curtains over the window. She’d moved off his lap, but he felt the small movements beside him as she adjusted herself. She was ashamed, he could see that clearly, and for the life of him he didn’t know how to make this right.

He felt her rise and take her seat on the opposite side of the carriage. He looked up.

She was patting at her hair, refusing to meet his gaze. “I… I hope you will not speak of this to anyone?”

He cursed, low and foully.

Her head jerked up and she stared at him with eyes that made him want to weep and bellow at the same time.

Griffin passed a hand across his forehead. “Of course I’ll not talk.”

She bit her lip, then nodded jerkily. “You need to put on your wig.”

“Do I?” He looked about the carriage seat, finally finding it smashed into a corner. The carriage rolled to a stop as he tugged the wig on. “Better?”

“Yes.”

They sat there in silence as they waited for the footman to set the step and open the door. Griffin tried to think of something to say. He’d stolen her innocence—in intent if not in fact. There was no going back from that.

Finally, after eons of waiting, the door was opened and she stepped down, her face averted from his. No doubt she loathed the very sight of him now, he thought grimly as he followed her.

“Hero, darling, there you are!” Lady Phoebe called from the top of the town house steps. “Cousin Bathilda is pacing holes in the sitting room carpet, and Cook has burned the soup.” Her bright eyes swiveled to him, and she squinted a bit behind her glasses. “And you’ve brought Lord Griffin for luncheon as well. How clever of you.”

Griffin felt Lady Hero go stiff beside him. “I do not wish to intrude on your luncheon, Lady Phoebe. Your sister kindly offered me a ride in her carriage, no more.”

“Oh, no, you
must
stay,” Lady Phoebe protested. “Cook will fix the soup, she always does, and it’s so much nicer with two gentlemen instead of a lonely one, badgered by females all about. Hero, do make him stay.”

Lady Hero turned to him and smiled with trembling lips, her eyes tragic. “Please.”

He ought to go, he knew that. Knew, too, that she didn’t really want him here. But her very fragility at that moment made it impossible for him to turn away.

Griffin bowed and held out his arm for her. “As you wish, my lady.”

She laid her hand on his sleeve, and he remembered with something of a jolt that those same fingers had wrapped around his cock not five minutes ago. Dear God, his brother’s fiancée. What a mess he’d made.

They mounted the steps and went inside, her sister all the while chattering and thankfully oblivious to their silence. Lady Hero was so wooden beside him she might have been a walking statue. He had an urge to cover the fingers on his sleeve, to see if they were warm with life.

Did she hate him now? Wish that they’d never done what they’d done in the carriage? He knew he should be regretting those moments, but he simply couldn’t. Her delicate breasts had been too sweet, the sound she had made when he’d taken her ripe nipple between his lips too beautiful. Her gray eyes had narrowed in bliss as he’d made love to her. And by God, he’d take that memory to his grave and be thankful of it, no matter the cost.

A footman took her wrap, and Lady Hero glanced at Griffin, then away again swiftly. “I… I just need to freshen up. Phoebe will show you to the luncheon room.”

Griffin bowed, watching moodily as she retreated up the stairs.

He turned to Lady Phoebe, offering his elbow. “I’m at your mercy.”

She grinned, taking his arm. “It’s just us for luncheon—myself, Hero, your brother, and Cousin Bathilda. Have you met my cousin Bathilda yet?”

“I haven’t had the honor.”

She nodded. “Don’t let Mignon bother you. She growls at everyone.”

And with those cryptic words, she led him up the stairs and into a light, feminine room, all yellows and whites with dauntingly fragile furniture. Thomas was standing at the far end with a rather stout matron. He looked up at their entrance, seeming less than pleased to see his brother.

“Look who Hero brought home,” Lady Phoebe said as they neared.

“Griffin,” Thomas murmured in greeting.

“Thomas.” Griffin turned to the older lady and eyed the small black, white, and brown spaniel she held in her arms. It was growling at him, low and continually, rather like a bumblebee.

“This is Lord Griffin Reading, Cousin Bathilda,” Lady Phoebe murmured. “My lord, this is my cousin, Miss Bathilda Picklewood.”

Miss Picklewood dipped into a creaking curtsy as he bowed. “We shall have to tell Panders that there is one more for luncheon.”

“I’ll try not to eat too much,” Griffin said lightly. “What a pretty little spaniel.”

“She is, isn’t she?” Miss Picklewood had actually pinkened. She stroked the spaniel’s head, and it interrupted its rumbling to lick her fingers. “Would you like to pet her?”

“Ah.” Griffin examined the dog warily. It hadn’t started growling again, but then its protuberant brown eyes didn’t look particularly friendly either.

Beside him, Lady Phoebe’s eyes were positively dancing behind her spectacles. “Don’t be frightened. If she bites, we’ll send for a doctor, I assure you.”

“Bloodthirsty baggage,” Griffin muttered under his breath before extending a hand toward the dog’s nose. If he were going to be bitten, he might as well get it over with. “Mademoiselle Mignon.”

The spaniel sniffed daintily and then opened her mouth in a doggy grin as he gingerly fondled her ears.

“I don’t understand it,” Miss Picklewood said. “She usually hates gentlemen.”

Griffin’s outraged gaze flew to Lady Phoebe’s own, and she covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.

The girl shrugged. “She’s never actually
bitten
a gentleman before. Just threatened to.”

“She came close with me,” Thomas remarked drily. “You must’ve rubbed your fingers in bacon, Griffin.”

“Perhaps she just has very good taste,” Griffin said as he scratched Mignon’s chin.

“In any case, she certainly seems fond of you,” Miss Picklewood muttered. She nodded as the butler made some sort of signal. “I think we’re ready to go in. Perhaps you can see what’s taking your sister so long, Phoebe?”

Lady Phoebe slipped from the room, and Thomas made a social remark, but Griffin wasn’t paying attention. He absently stroked the little spaniel and wondered if he was the reason Hero was reluctant to come to luncheon.

Damn, damn, damn.
He’d made the worst mistake of his life.

“Here she is.”

He looked up at the sound of Lady Phoebe’s voice. Hero was standing beside her, composed, though color still flew high in her cheeks.

She walked straight to Thomas and held out her hand. “My lord, it is good to see you.”

Thomas bent over her hand in a polite, everyday gesture that in no way could be construed as passionate, and pain arched through Griffin’s body in a searing flame. In that moment, he wanted to shove aside his brother, lift up Lady Hero, and bear her away. Take her someplace where he could wipe that look of bored serenity from her face and replace it with lust. Lust for
him
.

Instead he took a breath and offered his arm to Lady Phoebe. “Will you accompany me into luncheon, my lady?”

She smiled up at him, her round, rosy cheeks merry. “I’d be delighted, my lord.”

The luncheon, like the room, proved to be a feminine affair. A clear soup hardly more than a broth, delicate little pastries more pretty than filling, and a variety of breads and cheeses. The wine was good, though, and in ordinary circumstances, Griffin might’ve enjoyed himself.

“I understand you manage the family estates,” Miss Picklewood said with a queer look fixed on her face. She sat at the head of the table. One of her hands drifted beneath the table.

“
Manage
is surely too strong a word,” Thomas drawled from the foot of the table. “My brother is preoccupied with his amusements, and we do have several land stewards.”

Griffin picked up his knife. “What my brother is trying to say is that, yes, I do oversee the Mandeville estates as well as my private ones.”

Thomas gave him a blank, unfriendly stare as he sipped his wine.

To Thomas’s right, Lady Hero straightened as her hand disappeared beneath the table. “Are your lands in Lancashire as well, Lord Griffin?”

“Yes.” Griffin toyed with his knife. “A result of prudent marriages by my ancestors.”

“But that’s so far from London,” Lady Phoebe exclaimed. “Surely you must get lonely in the country.”

She bit her lip and stared straight ahead as her hand, too, suddenly darted underneath the table.

Thomas, seemingly oblivious to all this, snorted. “My brother can find excitement no matter where he is. And he has his trips to London should he find a need to debauch himself.”

Griffin narrowed his eyes, staring at Thomas, feeling the blackness boil at the back of his eyeballs. He smiled and dropped the knife. It clattered onto his plate.

The ladies started.

Thomas merely raised his eyebrows.

Griffin shifted his gaze to Lady Phoebe, who sat between him and Thomas. “I enjoy riding and hunting, my lady, and overseeing the planting and harvest takes up much of my time, so no, I’m not lonely, though I do thank you for your concern.”

She was frowning, her eyes darting between him and his brother, but at his words she smiled tentatively. “Well, we shall have to be sure to see that you are properly entertained when you are in London, won’t we, Hero?”

Lady Hero pressed her lips together. “Phoebe…”

“What?” Lady Phoebe looked confused.

Lady Hero’s expression was wooden. Even Miss Picklewood’s face looked more welcoming.

At that moment, Griffin felt tiny paws on his knee. They tapped quite imperiously.

“I’d be delighted to go anywhere you have a mind, Lady Phoebe.” He smiled and broke off a piece of pastry, feeding it to Mignon beneath the table.

“Our time is largely taken up by wedding arrangements,” Hero said repressively.

“But you must shop.” He picked up the knife again, idly twirling it between his fingers. “And eat and go to fairs and the like.”

Lady Phoebe giggled nervously.

Hero’s eyes dropped to her plate. Her cheeks had gone pale, her mouth crimped in a straight line.

He shrugged easily, though his heart had shriveled. “Or perhaps not.”

Thomas stirred in his seat. “I wouldn’t think you’d be inclined to go to any more fairs.”

Lady Phoebe perked up. “Why do you say that?”

Griffin arched an eyebrow at his brother, a sudden memory lightening his mood.

“Because Griffin nearly got himself killed by a pack of traveling tinkers at the last fair he attended,” Thomas drawled.

“Really?” Phoebe leaned forward.

“Indeed. He was in the act of stealing—”

“Merely examining,” Griffin interjected.

“
Stealing
,” Thomas rolled over him with his parliamentary voice, “a trinket of some kind.”

“A penknife,” Griffin murmured to Phoebe. “It had a ruby on the hilt.”

Thomas snorted. “Paste, most likely. In any event, one of the tinkers, a man of at least six feet tall, caught him by the scruff of the neck, and had I not intervened, I would be one brother shorter today.”

Griffin smiled wryly, putting down the knife and taking a sip of wine. “Even then Thomas was rather renown for his oratory.”

Thomas grinned and Griffin remembered that long-ago day. The sudden fear, the complete relief and gratitude when his bigger, older brother had come to his rescue. He looked down at his plate, nudging the knife with his fingertip. That time seemed centuries ago now.

“How old were you?” Hero asked softly.

He inhaled and looked up, meeting her far-too perceptive eyes. “Nearly twelve.”

She nodded and the conversation moved on to a piece of gossip Miss Picklewood had heard.

But Griffin was silent, contemplating that past when he and Thomas had been so close.

And the present when they were so very far apart.