In Venice, however . . .
He smiled at his father’s painting of the Grand Canal as he tugged his shirttail out of his breeches. Christmas in Venice had meant Carnival—masks and music, jugglers and acrobats. A feast of sound and color as unlike an Oakland Christmas as chalk to cheese.
And yet . . .
What would Christmas at Oakland have been like if his aunt hadn’t fallen and lost her baby, his uncle’s heir? Or if she’d been able to carry another infant to term?
Mrs. Potty had said Uncle Leon had never been as light-hearted as Nick’s father—well, Nick would admit, looking back, that Papa might have bordered on the irresponsible—but it seemed very likely his uncle wouldn’t have been so grim if he hadn’t had so much tragedy in his life.
Nick pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor as he looked at the connecting door. Something had been bothering Caro at dinner, though she had perked up a bit as the meal went on and the conversation got merrier.
What was the problem?
She’d said earlier that she was concerned about the Weasel, but he’d wager it was Dervington’s whelp that had upset her the most. She’d almost driven her fingers through his forearm when the fellow had told them his name.
She was strong. He looked at his forearm and was surprised not to see bruises.
I bet the rest of her is strong, too. All that work in the brewhouse. She must have strong arms. Strong legs. A strong, lovely body . . . mmm. Does she wear a virginal nightdress with a high neck and long sleeves? Or nothing at all—
Stop it!
Of course she wore a nightdress. And if she didn’t, it was none of his concern. They were only playing at being lovers.
His cock would certainly like to play. It was long and hard, pushing against his fall now, eager to be set free.
This bloody masquerade was going to be hell.
He stomped over to the bootjack and jerked his boots off with more force than necessary. Then he sat down on the bed to tug off his socks.
His large, soft, comfortable bed—or rather, Uncle Leon’s large, soft, comfortable bed. The man likely had worn a hair shirt to counteract the worldly pleasure of such luxury at night.
Though maybe not. There were those obscene statues. Perhaps the old goat had held a nightly party of one here on his mattress.
Poor lonely, old man.
For the first time he could remember, Nick felt pity for his uncle.
He frowned at a bedpost. Had his parents ever discussed Leon, Lady Oakland, and the babies?
Not that he remembered, though the first baby’s death and likely some of the miscarriages must have happened before he was born. And it was possible his parents had discussed the matter, and he’d just not paid attention. He’d been a young boy, after all, far more interested in playing than in listening to boring tales about people he didn’t know in a faraway, unpleasant-sounding place. Papa had always talked of England as if it were perpetually gray and cold and rainy—which it mostly was.
Though eventually, his father might reasonably have concluded that odds were good Nick would be the next viscount and brought some of this up.
No, not Papa. His father had lived very much in the moment, never planning for the future. He had been like an overgrown boy in that regard. When he was painting, you could have set off a small bomb in his studio and he’d not have noticed. When he was between paintings, he’d been up for any sort of lark. He’d go punting on the canals or fishing in the lagoon or exploring Venice’s maze of campi and calli—small squares and narrow streets.
And surely Papa never thought he’d die so young. He’d—
Zeus! Papa had been only a few years older than I am now.
Nick did the calculations several times in his head—and then resorted to counting on his fingers. The result was always the same.
He’d thought Papa old, but he hadn’t been.
And he’d only one son—me.
Why? Papa and Mama had seemed very much in love, not that Nick had paid a great deal of attention as a boy. But they’d always been touching and smiling and whispering together, and his grandparents and aunts and uncles had often teased them about it. He’d learned to avoid their bedroom in the night or the early morning—and even, occasionally, in the afternoon. Whenever the door was closed.
Much as he hated to contemplate it, his parents had obviously been doing what needed to be done to get more children—and yet they hadn’t.
Had Mama miscarried?
No. He would have known if she had. That wasn’t something she could have hidden in their small house, especially surrounded as they were by Mama’s mother and sisters.
Perhaps the St. John seed was weak or damaged....
He stood up and dropped his stockings on top of his shirt. It didn’t matter, at least to him. He wasn’t in the market for an heir. Let his distant cousin worry about continuing the line.
He felt a nagging whisper of guilt again, blast it. A worry about Mrs. Potty and the Brookses and old Pearson. Would the distant cousin look after them?
Surely, he would, though Nick supposed he should investigate the matter and find out precisely what sort of man was in line to be the next Viscount Oakland. He wasn’t even entirely certain of the fellow’s name. Was it Jonas or Jonah St. John? Or perhaps it was Joshua. And had Pearson said the fellow was an Oxford don? That would never do. Dons took vows of celibacy, didn’t they?
Oh, blast. Well, Nick would give Pearson the Christmas gift he’d always wanted. As soon as Nick got rid of his guests—invited and not—he’d stop putting the man off and would sit down with him to discuss estate business for as long as he wished.
He pulled off his breeches and drawers and dropped them on the pile of discarded clothing.
All he knew for certain was that he was not going to be the one to father the next viscount.
Unless . . .
He glanced at the connecting door—
No. Don’t be an idiot.
Ha! He was safe. Even if he were interested in marrying Caro—which he was not. Of course he was not. They hadn’t seen each other since they were children, for God’s sake. But if he were interested, Caro would set him straight at once and save him from himself. She obviously had no thought ever to marry.
A pity.
He heard a faint noise. Was it a knock at the door?
No. Now he was so randy, he was hallucinating. Worse, his cock had sprung to eager attention at the imagined sound.
He groaned, closing his eyes. Hell. Clearly—painfully so—even though he had no interest in fathering a child, the organ that had to do the work had a keen desire to undertake the task. If only Livy were here now—
“Oh!”
Oh? Who’d said oh?
His eyes flew open to see Caro, standing in the open doorway, staring at—
He lunged for the counterpane, pulled it off the bed, and wrapped it around his middle. Fortunately, there was plenty of extra fabric so his large and getting larger erection didn’t make an obvious tent in the cloth.
“Uh. Er. What’s the matter, Caro? Why are you—”
Idiot! There could be only one reason Caro would invade his room; the Weasel must have invaded hers.
“Don’t worry. I’ll deal with him.” He started forward.
“But, Nick. I’m mean, I’m sorry. I—oh!”
Caro had been right when she’d said if men were ever forced to wear skirts, the bloody things would have been shredded, burned, and banned eons ago. His first step caught the frigging counterpane. He took another, trying to catch his balance, and only made things worse.
There was no hope for it. He had to abandon the bedclothes and all sense of modesty and propriety before he measured his length on the floor.
He dropped the blasted coverlet, but that didn’t help. The damnable cloth still tangled about his feet like a mass of vines—or a seething ball of serpents. He pitched forward—
Caro, the daft woman, came running to help
him.
“Oh, Nick. Watch out! Let me—”
He grabbed her shoulders—he hadn’t much choice, she was in his path. He had some confused notion that he might be able to push her away and save her from disaster, but it was a vain hope. His momentum carried them onward.
By some miracle, he managed to keep upright as he hopped and skipped and stumbled, until they crashed into the wall, Caro’s back flattened against it, his front flattened against Caro.
Mmm. He’d answered his question as to what she wore to sleep in. She was clad only in a thin nightdress. It was not as wonderful as having her naked, of course, but it was still very wonderful not to have a dress and stays and chemise between them—well, or his coat, waistcoat, shirt, breeches, and drawers, either.
She was soft—and yet, firm, too—and curved and warm. Her glorious hair, tumbling loose over her shoulders, smelled of lemon and soap.
Fortunately, his heart was pounding so hard from the wild, bizarre dance they’d taken that it had stolen all the blood from his cock. He might be flattening her, but he wasn’t also spearing her.
Yet.
“Are you all right?” He whispered the words into her hair. He should push away, but his hands had somehow got trapped between her and the wall.
And I’m naked, remember.
And she was in a nightdress. A thin garment that did nothing to hide her lovely, soft curves, that could be easily removed on the way to the wide, comfortable bed just steps . . .
No! Think with your brain, not your cock. This is Caro. Henry’s sister. Your childhood friend. She’s clearly had bad experiences with men. Don’t add yourself to her list of blackguards.
He leaned back a little so he could see her face. Her eyes were wide, blue pools, fringed with absurdly long, dark lashes, but he thought he saw only surprise there, not alarm. “Are you all right?”
And was there also a little flicker of . . . need? Was she panting just a little? Her mouth was so close. It would take bending only a fraction of an inch to capture her lips.
No, no, no.
“Y-yes.”
Yes?! So, he could—
Bloody hell, it was hard to clear the fog of lust from his brain. Caro meant yes, she was all right, not yes, take me to bed and have your wicked way with me.
Unfortunately.
Though she did seem to be darting glances at his neck and shoulders. And she wasn’t struggling to get free, nor did she seem alarmed by her position in his arms, pressed against his naked body.
Because she trusts me.
He was shocked to realize that the thought of losing her trust was more painful than that of the agony he’d feel upon receiving a knee to his most sensitive organ.
He’d hate it if Caro looked on him as an enemy rather than a friend.
“I apologize. I’m not, er, dressed for company,” he managed to say in spite of his dry mouth and thick tongue.
Humor sparked in her eyes. “I noticed.”
Perhaps that was the answer—keep it light. “Was there a particular purpose for your call?” He waggled his brows theatrically. Might as well admit what must be becoming embarrassingly obvious. “If you were looking for a bit of diversion, I will be most delighted to provide it.”
She laughed, as he’d hoped she would. “No, thank you.”
And then she frowned and pressed against him.
His foolish male organ jumped with hope and excitement.
“You don’t feel like you’re impotent.” Her tone was accusatory. “And you certainly didn’t look like you were when I came into the room.”
“Er.” Should he say she’d misunderstood Livy? But she hadn’t misunderstood. He’d been as limp as boiled asparagus when he’d had Livy in this room last night.
She pushed on his shoulders. He hesitated a moment and then decided to let her take the lead wherever the hell she wanted to go. If she brought a fit of the vapors on herself, then so be it.
He stepped back. His thick, swollen cock stood boldly at a right angle to his body, pointing directly at Caro. If that didn’t send her screaming back to her room—
It didn’t. She was staring at his male member as he imagined she might study a brew that hadn’t turned out as expected. He felt an odd mix of embarrassment, titillation, and curiosity.
Curiosity won. He would wait and see what she did next.
She glanced up at his face. He thought—or perhaps it was just that he hoped—her eyes held more than scientific interest. And yet, she wasn’t being flirtatious. He felt quite certain of that. She didn’t want him to seduce her.
Sadly.
“May I touch?”
His cock nodded—and then his head did, too, even though he couldn’t believe he’d heard correctly.
She reached—slowly, tentatively—toward his brainless member, which, if it had been a dog, would have been whining and jumping and begging, in a frenzy to be petted.
He bit his lip as her fingers grazed his skin, tracing his length from his root to his tip.
His knees were going to give out if he didn’t lie down at once. “Uh, the bed?”
Caro snatched her hand back, alarm flashing through her eyes. “No. I-I didn’t mean . . . That is, I don’t want . . . I really am not interested in . . .”
He would put her out of her misery before she strangled on her own tongue.
Don’t think about tongues.
“Caro, I won’t touch you unless and until you ask me to do so. But if you want to continue to touch me, I need to lie down. Or sit. I suppose that might work. Or, well, I could try holding on to a chair while standing. I might be able to keep to my feet with support.”
She eyed him cautiously. “The bed, then.”
He hobbled—partly to make her laugh and partly because walking was uncomfortable—over to the bed, got carefully onto it, stretched out on his back, looked up at the ceiling, and threw his arms wide. “Now, have your wicked way with me.”
She laughed again, but this time the sound had a nervous edge to it. A nervous and distant edge.
He turned his head to look at her.
She hadn’t followed him across the room.
Clearly, she was having second thoughts.
Since he had no idea what her first thoughts had been—beyond being certain she hadn’t come into his room to ogle him or invite him to engage in some spirited bed play—he regretfully decided he needed to stop whatever it was they were doing until he knew what she wanted. He carefully propped himself up on an elbow.
“Does it hurt?” She was staring at his cock again, which only made the blasted organ swell more.
“Well . . .” He would not resort to polite lies.
Polite?! The present situation was far, far outside the boundaries of polite.
“It is uncomfortable, but it will, er, subside with time.”
How familiar was she with the male anatomy? She wasn’t reacting like he imagined a virgin would. Well, if the rumor he’d heard years ago in London was true, she wasn’t a virgin. But she wasn’t acting like an experienced woman either.
Clearly, whatever Dervington had done to or with her hadn’t sold her on the notion of sexual congress. Hell, she carried a knife around to defend herself from men—though she obviously didn’t have it with her now.
And you don’t want to do anything to make her wish she did have it with her.
True. He sat up, grabbed a pillow, and put it across his lap, giving his cock some privacy to shrink back to its normal, polite-company proportions.
“Pardon me for asking, and not that you aren’t welcome, but why are you here”—keep your tone light—“if not to have your wicked way with me?”
She laughed—but flushed, too. “I knocked. I thought you . . .” She looked away, shrugged, looked back at him. “Well, I suppose you just grunted, but I thought you’d indicated I could come in. I’m sorry I intruded. I’ll just go—”
“No.” If she went back to her room now, leaving him ignorant—and aroused—he
’d not be able to sleep.
More to the point, if what she had to say was important enough for her to brave his bedchamber, it was too important to leave unsaid.
“What did you want to tell me?”
* * *
This was so embarrassing. And odd. And . . .
Exciting?
Surely not. And yet a host of emotions she’d thought long dead had woken in her.
She’d not seen a man naked before. Oh, she’d caught glimpses of her brothers in the buff. She’d even seen their dangly bits a few times—but the bits had definitely been dangly, not long and thick and stiff like Nick’s. The two times Dervington had come to her bed, he’d kept his shirt on. There had been a few kisses, a quick fumble as he’d pulled her nightdress up, and then—
That memory quickly killed her reanimated desires.
To think that huge thing had been shoved up inside me . . .
She shuddered. Now she understood why what Dervington had done had hurt so much, especially that first time. The second time hadn’t been quite so painful, and there’d not been blood all over her sheets. But the first time . . .
No wonder she’d bled like a stuck pig.
If I’d seen Dervington’s bit beforehand, I would never have let him near me.
“Caro, what is it?”
She blinked and came back to the present and Nick, sitting naked—except for the carefully placed pillow—on the bed. He was looking at her, really looking at her, as if he saw her and not just an attractive female body that he wanted to use for his own amusement.
I can’t let myself be fooled again. . . .
“Tell me.” He sounded as if he truly cared.
She trusted herself to size up customers interested in her ale. She’d become a much better judge of character in thirteen years. It was far harder to hoodwink her now.
Hoodwink? Ha! Dervington hadn’t had to do much on that score. She’d fooled herself. She’d written the play, and Dervington had happily donned the costume she’d handed him. He just hadn’t acted the role in the way she’d imagined.
The Merry Viscount Page 13