A Wild Pursuit

by Eloisa James

  But the truth was that the trouble started long before. Back when she was fifteen and fell in love with the head footman. Never mind the fact that Ned the Footman must have been thirty. She adored him. Alas, she wasn’t very subtle about it. Her entire family knew the truth within a day or so. Finally her father sent the overly handsome footman to one of his distant country estates. He didn’t really get angry, though, until he discovered she had been writing Ned the Footman letters, one a day, passionate, long letters…

  That’s where she went wrong. With Ned the Footman.

  Because Ned rejected her. She offered herself to him, all budding girlhood and thrilled with love, and he said no. And it wasn’t to preserve his position, either. Ned the Footman wasn’t interested. She could read it on his face. After her father transferred him to the country, he never answered a single letter. With the wisdom of time, she realized Ned may not have been able to read, but honesty compelled her to admit that he wouldn’t have wanted to write back. He thought she was tiresome.

  Ever since then, she seemed to be chasing one Ned after another…except all the Neds she found were endlessly willing, and therefore endlessly tiresome.

  She curled up her toes and rocked back and forth a little. She was certain that she wasn’t merely a lusty trollop, as her father characterized her. She truly did want all those things other women wanted: a husband, a baby, two babies, love…. Real love, not the kind based on breasts propped up by cotton pads.

  You’ve gone about the wrong way of finding that sort of love, she thought sourly. And it was too late now. It wasn’t as if she could let her hair down and put away her rouge, and swear to never utter another profanity. She liked being herself; she truly did. It was just…it was just that being herself was rather lonely sometimes.

  “Oh damn it all,” she said out loud, rubbing her nose hard to stop the tears from coming. “Damn it all! And damn Ned too!”

  A slight noise made her look up, and there in the doorway was Mr. Laughing Lover himself, looking tall and broad-shouldered and altogether aristocratic. He could never be a footman. Not even Ned had looked at her with that distant disapproval, that sort of well-bred dismay. Ofcourse, the man was sated by his midnight excursion. That alone would make him invulnerable to her charms, such as they were.

  “Ned?” he said, eyebrow raised. “I gather the gentleman has not joined us but remains in your thoughts?”

  “Precisely,” she said, putting her chin on her knees and pretending very hard that she didn’t mind that he had been with Helene. “And how are you, Mr. Fairfax-Lacy? Unable to sleep?”

  “Something of the sort,” he said, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

  Why on earth was he in the library instead of snuggling beside the skinny body of his mistress? Uncharitable thought, she reminded herself. You’re the one with a padded bosom. The reminder made her irritable.

  “So why are you in the library?” she asked. “I thought you had other fish to fry.”

  “A vulgar phrase,” he said, wandering forward and turning the wick on the Argand lamp. “In fact, I came to see if I could find the book of poetry you gave to Lady Godwin.”

  “Why, are you having a private reading?” she asked silkily.

  The minx was nestled on the settee, little pointed chin resting on her knees. She was curled up like a child, and with her hair down her back, she should have looked like a schoolgirl. It must be the dimple that gave her such a knowing look. That and the way her lips curled up, as if they were inviting kisses.

  He walked over to her. “Why on earth did you give Lady Godwin that particular poem to read?”

  “Didn’t you like it?”

  Close up, she didn’t look like a child. Her hair was the color of burning coals. It tumbled down her back, looking as delectable and warm as the rest of her. “You’ve washed your face,” he said. Ignoring the danger signals sent by his rational mind, he crouched down before her so their eyes were on the same level. “Look at that,” he said mockingly. “I do believe that your eyebrows are as yellow as a daisy.”

  “Pinkish, actually,” she said. “I absolutely loathe them. And in case you’re planning to comment on it, my eyelashes are precisely the same color.”

  “It is rather odd. Why aren’t they the same red as your hair?”

  She hugged her knees tighter and wrinkled her nose. “Who knows? One of my sisters has red hair, and she has lovely eyelashes. But mine fade into my skin unless I color them.”

  “They’re very long, though.” He just stopped himself from touching them.

  “And they curl. I should be grateful that I have material to work on. They look quite acceptable after I blacken them. Naturally, I never allow a man to see me in this condition.”

  “And what am I?” Stephen said. She was actually far more seductive like this than when she was being seductive, if only she knew. She smelled like lemons rather than a thick French perfume. Her lips were a gloriously pale pink, the color of posies in a spring garden.

  “I suppose you are a man. But sated men have never interested me.”

  “What an extraordinarily rude person you are. And how unaccountably vulgar.”

  “I can’t think why it surprises you so much,” she said, seemingly unmoved by his criticism. “Surely you must have talked once or twice in your life to a woman who wasn’t as respectable as yourself.”

  “Actually, brothels have never interested me. I have found ready companionship in other places.”

  Bea shrugged. He wasn’t the first to imply that she belonged in such an establishment, although to her mind, that signaled his stupidity. There was a vast difference between taking occasional pleasure in a man’s company and doing the same thing for money, and if he couldn’t see the difference, he was as stupid as the rest.

  “Where did you find that poem, anyway?” he said, getting up and walking toward the bookshelves.

  “I brought it with me.”

  He swung around. “You travel about the country with a collection of libidinous poetry?”

  “I have only just discovered Stephen Barnfield, and I like his poetry a great deal. The piece Helene read is by far his most sensuous. And it worked, didn’t it? Called you to her side like a barnyard dog!”

  “Not just a dog, but a barnyard dog?” he said, wandering back and sitting down next to her. His rational mind told him to stop acting like the said barnyard dog. And every cell in his body was howling to move closer to her.

  “If you’d like to read the poetry yourself, I believe Lady Godwin left it on the table.”

  He grabbed the book and then returned to the settee and sat down again. He didn’t want to look at Bea anymore. Her thick gold eyelashes were catching the firelight. “I shall borrow it, if I may,” he said, leafing through the pages.

  “I was surprised to find that you knew Spenser’s poetry, for all you chose an unpleasantly vituperative bit to read aloud. You should have known that Lady Arabella would take it amiss if you read aloud poetry criticizing women for growing old.”

  “I wasn’t criticizing age,” he said, reaching out despite himself and picking up a lock of her hair. It was silky smooth and wrapped around his finger. “That poetry was directed at you and all your face painting.”

  “I gathered that.” Bea felt as if little tendrils of fire were tugging at her legs, tugging at her arms, telling her to fall into his arms. She lay her head sideways on her knees and looked at him. He had dropped her hair and was reading the book of poetry. Who would have thought he liked poetry? He looked such a perfect English gentleman, with that strong jaw and elegant cheek. Even after (presumably) shaking the sheets with Helene, he was as irreproachably neat and well dressed as ever. Only the fact that he wore no cravat betrayed his earlier activities.

  “Where’s your cravat?” she asked, cursing her own directness. She didn’t want to know the answer, so why ask?

  “I’ve found the poem.” His eyebrows rose as he read. “Goodness, Bea, you are
a surprising young woman.”

  “Only in my better moments. So where is your cravat?” He’d undoubtedly left it on the floor of Lady Godwin’s room, lost as he’d wrenched it from his throat in his urgency to leap into bed with the chaste—or not so chaste—countess. “Did you leave it on Helene’s floor?” she asked, jealousy flooding her veins.

  “No, I didn’t,” he said, looking at her over the book. The somber look in his eyes, that disapproval again, told her she was being vulgar.

  She threw him a smoldering invitation, just to make him angry. It worked.

  “I hate it when you practice on me,” he observed, his eyes snapping. “You don’t really want me, Bea, so don’t make pretenses.”

  She threw him another look, and if he weren’t so stupid, he would know—he would see that it was real. That the shimmer of pure desire racing through her veins was stronger than she’d ever felt.

  But he didn’t see it, of course. He merely frowned again and then reached into his pocket and pulled out his cravat.

  “Oh, there it is,” she said, rather foolishly.

  “A gentleman is never without a cravat,” he said, moving suddenly toward her.

  Bea raised her head, thinking he was finally, finally going to kiss her. A moment later he had tied the cravat neatly over her eyes. She felt him draw away and then heard the crackle of pages.

  “Let me know when you wish to return to your chambers,” he said politely, although any idiot could hear the amusement in his voice. “I think we’ll both be more comfortable this way.”

  For a moment Bea sat in stunned silence. She didn’t even move. She still had her arms around her knees. But she couldn’t see a thing. Her senses burst into life. His leg was a mere few inches from hers, and her memory painted it exactly, since she couldn’t see it: the way his muscles pulled the fine wool of his trousers tight when he sat. The way his shirt tucked into those trousers without the slightest plumpness. Even—and no good woman would have noticed this, obviously—the rounded bulge between his legs that promised pleasure.

  Bea wiggled a little. It was worse than when she could see him. Sensation prickled along every vein, pooled between her legs. Perhaps if she leaned back against the couch and pretended to stretch? Her night rail was fashioned by Parisian exiles and made of the finest lace. Perhaps it could do what she could not seem to do: seduce him. At least make him feel a portion of the yearning desire she felt.

  But she’d tried all of that before. It was a little embarrassing to realize how much she had tried to create a spark of lust in his eyes. She had rubbed against him like a cat, leaned forward and showed her cleavage so often he must worry she had a backache. None of it had created the slightest spark of interest in the man. Only when she’d been rained on and covered with mud had he kissed her.

  Bea chewed her lip. Maybe she should just return to her room. Except honesty told her that she would no more leave his presence than she would stop breathing. Not when he might kiss her, when he might change his mind, when he might—

  Oh, please let the poem excite him, since I don’t seem to be able to, she prayed to any heathen goddess who happened to be listening. Please let it work for me as well as it worked for Helene.

  “If it be sin to love a sweet-faced Boy,” he read.

  His voice was so dark, so chocolate deep that it sent shivers down her spine. The poem certainly worked on her. Bea felt him lean toward her. She didn’t let herself move.

  “Whose amber locks trussed up in golden trammels, dangle down his lovely cheeks…”

  A wild shiver ran down Bea’s back as his hand rested on her head.

  “Your hair is darker than amber, Lady Beatrix. Your hair is more the color of—”

  “Wine?” Bea said with a nervous giggle. She felt utterly unbalanced by her inability to see. She was used to directing the conversation.

  “Not rust. Beetroot, perhaps?”

  “How very poetic of you. I prefer comparisons to red roses or flame.”

  “Beetroot has this precise blending of deep red and an almost orange undertone.”

  “Marvelous. Bea the Beetroot.”

  “Mellifluous,” he agreed. “Of course, it might look less beetlike if you had pearls and flowers entangled in it like the boy in this poem. After all, his amber locks are—let me see if I’ve got this right—enameled with pearl and flowers.”

  “Flowers are not in style,” Bea said dismissively. “A feather, perhaps. Pearls are so antiquated.”

  “If it be sin to love a lovely Lady,” he read, “Oh then sin I, for whom my soul is sad.”

  Bea almost couldn’t breath. She wanted to drink that voice; she wanted that voice to drink her. She wanted that voice to tell her—“You’ve changed the poem,” she said rather shakily. “The line reads, ‘If it be sin to love a lovely lad.’”

  “There’s no lad in my life whom I love,” Stephen said. He couldn’t not touch her for another moment. He closed the book and put it to the side. She was still curled like a kitten, strangely defenseless without those flashing eyes that seemed to send invitations in every direction. He rather missed them.

  Dimly he noticed that his fingers were trembling as they reached toward her. He lifted her head and just rubbed his lips across hers. She sighed—could it be that she wanted his kiss as he longed to give it? Her arms slipped around his neck.

  But he didn’t like the fact that those magnificent eyes of hers were covered. So what if they sent him a message they’d sent a hundred other men? He pulled the cravat off her head in one swift movement and then, before she could even open her eyes, he cupped that delicate face in his hands and kissed her again, hard this time, demanding a true response: one that she hadn’t given another man.

  Her lips didn’t taste of the worldly smiles that so often sat there. They tasted sweet and wild, and they opened to him with a gasp of pleasure. He invaded her mouth, only meaning to tell her that he felt desire when he wanted to, not when she willed it.

  But she tasted like lemons, sweet and tart, and her mouth met his with a gladness that couldn’t be feigned. Nor could the shiver in her body when he pulled her against him, nor could the tightness with which she wound her arms around his neck. Oh, she was—she was glorious, every soft, yielding inch of her. He longed to lick her whole body, to see if she tasted as tart and sweet behind her knees, and on her belly, and between her legs…aye, there too. Because she would let him: he knew that without a doubt. All the respectable women he’d slept with, wives and widows, none of them had even dreamed of such a thing.

  He had never even tried, knowing one can only take such liberties with a courtesan, a woman paid to accept the indignities of sensual activity. But Bea…sweet, unmarried Bea…

  God, what was he doing?

  He tore his mouth away and she leaned back toward him, her mouth bee-stung and her eyes closed. He went back for one last taste, just licked her mouth, except she opened to him and then her lips drew his tongue into her mouth. His hands turned to steel on her shoulders, even as his lower body involuntarily jerked toward her. Lust exploded in his loins at the precise moment that rage turned his vision dark.

  “Where the devil did you learn that trick?” he said, pulling back.

  She opened her eyes, and for a moment Stephen was bewildered: her eyes were so velvety soft, innocent seeming, dazzled looking. She must have looked dazzled for many a man. Even as he watched her eyes focus. But she didn’t lose her languorous, desirous look.

  “Do this?” she said softly, leaning forward. She almost took him by surprise, but he jerked back.

  Bea sighed. Obviously the rake had turned back into a Puritan. She might as well infuriate him since he clearly wasn’t planning on further kisses—or anything else, for that matter. “I believe that was Billy Laslett,” she said. Now she really wanted to return to her bedchamber. How excruciatingly embarrassing this was. “Lord Laslett now, since his father died a few months ago.”

  “Laslett taught you that kiss and d
idn’t marry you?” Stephen asked, feeling as if he’d been pole-axed.

  “Oh, he asked,” Bea said, standing up. Her knees were still weak. “He asked and asked, if that makes you feel any better.”

  Stephen felt sour and enraged. He stood up and towered over Bea. “At least you remember his name,” he said with deliberate crudity.

  Bea rolled her eyes. “There haven’t been that many, Mr. Fairfax-Lacy. I’m only twenty-three. Ask me again when I’m fifty. But may I say that I am quite impressed with your stamina? After all, it’s not every man in his forties who could frolick so gaily with a countess and then prepare such an…impressive welcome for me.” She let her eyes drift to his crotch.

  Then she smiled gently at the outrage in his face and walked from the room, leaving Stephen Fairfax-Lacy alone in the library with a libidinous book of poetry.

  And an impressive welcome.

  15

  The Imprint of a Man’s Skin

  Esme was having second thoughts. Her heart was still pounding from the pure terror of seeing Jeannie move toward the windows. She wrapped the towel tighter around her shoulders. “This is a foolish idea. The babe is due any day now.”

  “Oh, I know that,” he said with some amusement. “I can count as well as any, you know. Last July, when you and I met in Lady Troubridge’s drawing room, is almost precisely eight and a half months ago.”

  “This is Miles’s baby,” she said, fully aware of just how obstinate she sounded. But it was terribly important to her that Miles have the child he wanted so much.

  “Surely it has occurred to you that your certitude that this child is Miles’s may be an error? After all, you had not yet reconciled with your husband when you and I enjoyed each other’s company.”