“Madam.” Lord Blakely leaned forward and spoke directly into Aunt Prudence’s face. “Do not presume to tell me what I may or may not do. Your gambling days, as they affect your niece or any part of your household, are at an end.”
The pale glow spilling from the windows and open door of the home they’d reached, combined with the carriage’s exterior lanterns, gave Francine enough light to see her aunt stumble.
“Girls! Go inside this instant.” Her aunt turned back to Lord Blakely but Francine couldn’t make out her expression. “G-gambling debts, my lord?” Aunt Prudence remarked in a docile, toadying voice totally foreign to her usual strident commands and caterwauling. “Why, whatever could you mean? I am not one to dabble at the green cloth—”
“Your vernacular alone belies your protest,” he told her coldly. “I have secured your vowels from Peterson. I know exactly how much you lost to him and that he was blackmailing you with your debt and on top of that working to extract exorbitant interest. Now, madam,” he spoke with an unhurried cadence that only stressed the threatening undercurrent palpable in his tone, “you are in debt to me. Do not, I repeat, do not ever interfere with Lady Francine’s actions again. I may have bought Peterson’s silence but mine is not for sale. If you go against me on this, I will make your ill habits known—gambling with money you do not have to lose, trading the reputation, the very life of one in your care.” He made an incensed, hissing noise, that even knowing wasn’t directed at her, made Francine jump. “And if that were to come out? Then, madam, your precious daughters lose their reputations, quite likely their beaus, and your standing in the ton becomes tarnished beyond redemption. Have I made myself clear?”
“Pre-precisely, my lord.” Aunt Prudence’s entire demeanor had changed. “I trust I will see you inside?”
“You will. Later.”
Aunt Prudence stepped back and Lord Blakely nodded to his servant to secure the door once again.
In the darkened interior, Francine stared at his shadow and felt her world tilt on its axis once again. “How—how did you confirm such a thing? Secure her vowels? And so quickly?”
“It seems your dear aunt has developed a penchant for gaming and deep play. I made some discreet inquiries and discovered she was in to Peterson for over fifteen thousand pounds. Not counting the insane interest that was accumulating.”
Fifteen? Thousand? “But that is—”
“A bloody fortune. I know.”
“I shall pay you back, my lord.”
“Erasmus,” he reminded her, his voice going all dark and smoky. “No you will not. What you will do is sit there silently while I sample your body’s perfume again.”
That brought an immediate blush to her cheeks, a tingling to her loins.
“I will?” she murmured, hardly daring to hope.
His warmth caressed her collarbone when he leaned forward, guiding one hand under her skirt. A whimper escaped her lips just as his mouth neared hers.
“Very good, Francine,” he practically purred. His fingers delved beneath her petticoats and shift, then grazed up her stocking until he reached the bare skin of her inner thigh. She held her breath, afraid to move and break the spell. “Very good, indeed.”
His lips and tongue danced lightly over her mouth while his touch edged nearer forbidden territory. He slid his tongue past her lips, his fingers past her feminine curls.
She moaned around his tongue, finding the unexpected texture to it arousing. Had it been this rough before? She couldn’t remember, but thinking about last night took too much effort, especially when he was stroking her tongue with his, licking the roof of her mouth. Did all men kiss this way?
Restless, she shifted her hips. His fingers delved, parting her folds to circle her entrance and slide inside the wet welcome. “Ummm.” She couldn’t stop the welcoming, eager sound from escaping.
With a hiss he jerked back—distancing both his mouth and his hand—until he was gazing at her in the darkness and no longer touching her anywhere. His piercing eyes glowed as he stared at her lips.
Her heartbeat suddenly clamored between her thighs. “I ache for you. Please, Erasmus, touch me again.”
She sensed his satisfied smile rather than saw it, and then from the soft noises, could tell he was licking his fingers clean, right in front of her. “Debauched, indeed.”
He made a satisfying murmur at the husky accusation. How she wished she could see him.
The raspy sound of his tongue swiping over his skin caused Francine to go rigid. The flesh he’d left empty burned. “Touch me again.”
He leaned forward and licked her lips. She tried to capture his tongue and pull it into her mouth, but he evaded her attempts. She gripped his forearm, ready to launch herself into his lap, but he broke free.
“Lady Francine, I do believe we have a musicale to endure.” He chuckled, and it had a slight edge to it. Good. The beast isn’t unaffected—just pretending to be. “I mean enjoy. During every note of every measure, I want you to anticipate the moment when I will take you tonight. Because I will.”
6
The Wylde Interlude
Erasmus, you shall be a man soon. Your eighteenth year looms close—but so does The Change.
Do I tell my serious, overly responsible son of the fate that awaits him? Do I rob him of what should rightly be his last few years of unfettered freedom? More to the point, when do I tell you what I discovered last year? When your mother joined me at the hunting lodge while I was near insensible from waging the fight I do every summer? Brave lass holds my heart more every year we are together. (Have I mentioned she even convinced me to cast off that last mistress some years back—and it didn’t take a significant amount of coaxing, either.)
I continue to appreciate and value her more with every day that passes.
Even when she defied my every order and defeated my guard (hard to obey the master when the master’s wife holds a loaded dueling pistol up to your ear—or so I gathered once I became myself again). I lose time during much of the battle. Lose my memory too, have I told you that? So much of the blame weeks I grapple, defending myself against The Change, is a bloody haze when it’s over.
Regardless. Son, she seduced me. Aye, you read that right. That sweet-smelling sweetheart of a woman who has suffered so much at my hands, seduced me when I was nearly insensible, so damn fearful of harming her again.
And the gentle loving she blessed me with? Well, upon the completion of it, Erasmus, I swear I was blessed with hours of normalcy.
Or as near normal as a half-beast can experience when the Roho wa Simba is so strong.
Does the act of sex subdue the urges? Tame the beast?
I sit here and ponder, both that and exactly when to share all of this with you.
Is it just sex? Or perhaps love? Will this only hold true with a woman who owns your heart? Or would any woman do? Or was the calming of savage urges significant only because it was your mother—my love?
And do not think I jest in this, for ’tis not a laughing matter. However, I can promise you tossing one off by frigging your own pipe will not suffice, else I’d have become a tame pussycat by now.
After suffering through deplorable music and sitting next to the delectable Lady Francine, Blakely was aroused to the point of pain and enjoying every miserable, trying second.
He’d half expected that spending more time with her—fully clothed—would dull her appeal. Never before had he committed himself to so many consecutive hours in the company of one such as her, but if anything, ’twas he who was duped. Anticipation? Bloody hell. If he didn’t take her soon, he’d turn into a raving beast all by himself—by choice—and cart her off… Ravish her thoroughly against the nearest wall and roar at anyone who dared interrupt.
Are you listening to yourself? Have you gone mad? ’Tis not a matter for jests!
Confound it.
As if he could change at will. Risk the lives of those close to him? By the devil, he spent so much time fighting
The Change each year, that even contemplating doing it by choice shocked him to the tips of his sometimes clawed toes.
Mayhap the strident tones assaulting his eardrums were scrabbling his common sense, scrambling his judgment?
Thank heavens they’d dallied in the carriage.
That spontaneous episode ensuring they arrived sufficiently late that all of the seats near the performance area were taken. He and Francine occupied a perch upon a settee in the last informal row that had been arranged to accommodate those invited, satisfyingly distant from her aunt and cousins.
Although, the younger one had proved surprisingly entertaining, with her exuberant questions about his coat of arms and heraldic symbols, showing a more intellectual bent than the other two gossipy harpies, retrieving a pencil and paper from her reticule, making notes by the meager light after she pulled the window curtain aside. Even going so far as to invite him to call her “Tempest, now that we’re going to be family”—to the hissed disapproval of her mother—when she laughed about Miss Temperance Comberlander being such a veritable mouthful. Dismissing with a light shrug the rumbled criticisms from her mother and older sister the more she asked…
And Francine? Those subtly inquisitive fingers of hers only allowing a fraction of his mind to remain on the impromptu history lesson; the rest of his thoughts entrenched firmly in the vicinity of his groin.
Much as they were now.
Her alluring scent rising up to capture his riotous thoughts. Sunshine, heather and lust. Combined with the delicate fragrance of lilacs she wore tonight, a new scent to catalog. The combination persisted in going to his head, kept his mind firmly on her instead of circling elsewhere, seeking solutions to the growing concern surrounding his cubs.
He should be analyzing the list Adam had made, shared with him last night, the list comparing the known locations of certain men against dates of the horrid acts he now knew had been committed closer to The Den than comfort allowed. But nay, one more scent reined in his concentration, tethered it and him—right back to the woman at his side.
Where he so easily identified her own heady aroma—that which was wafting from between her thighs. Damn his overly astute nose. Damn him and his earlier teasing. His reckless actions had only served to whet both their carnal appetites and he paid the price for it now, his tongue pulsing with the need to taste her again. Everywhere.
Lady Stanton’s well-hyped (erroneously, it seemed) musicale wasn’t even halfway through the interminable first set. The way things were progressing, he’d never make it to the interval without bursting through his breeches and tossing up Francine’s skirts to claim her right here in the back of the Stantons’ ballroom, converted for the event.
That would certainly be living up to his reputation, now wouldn’t it? Plunk her into his lap and bang away. ’Twould ruin them both. Completely and forever.
She was driving him to think like a dull swift.
Gads. Rather than howl his frustration, he sought distraction by means of her wit.
Below the piercing tones coming from the youngest Stanton on the pianoforte, he bent his head to whisper, “Since your aunt has been offering your hand to any marriage-minded man in the ton, and even those who are not so inclined, I am curious how you have managed to remain unclaimed thus far. Did you make it a practice to crack statuary over all their heads?”
A subtle smile curved her lips before she spoke. “Most subdued their suit when I expressed disinterest. For those who chose not to, I simply made myself unpalatable.” She addressed him from behind her gently waving fan, her eyes riveted on the elevated platform at the front of the room. Was she refusing to look at him intentionally? Or did she truly enjoy this hash?
“Why is that, I wonder?” He no longer made any pretense of paying attention to the performance. “Is it not the ambition of every young lady to marry, manage her own home and have a family?”
“Not when stifling your true self is the price and freedom is the cost.”
She spoke so quickly he almost missed it, but her words repeated themselves in his mind. Freedom…that mattered to her. She’d mentioned it more than once. Before he could ask what she meant by the rest, she added, “The only thing standing in my way is time. And my aunt.”
“She will not be haranguing you further.”
“What about our agreement?” At that, she glanced at him, then smartly snapped her fan shut and then open again, waving it furiously. A burst of air huffed past his jaw. “Now that you have taken care of Aunt Pru, there remains no need—”
In case she harbored any ridiculous notions of ending their betrothal early, he blurted, “There stands every reason to keep up our pretense.”
Was that relief? A softening in her posture, surely.
“I concur,” she said, relaxing the motions of her fan and gazing again at the stage as if enraptured. “We shall continue our association until the agreed upon time several weeks hence. Correct?”
He wanted her attention on him, not the butchered music blasting his sensitive ears. “Do you remember every facet of our bargain?”
Behind her fan, he saw one cheek dimple when she replied, still without looking at him, “Are you referring to the part where you satisfy my desires?”
“Minx.” At least he knew he had her full attention. “I refer to the aspect where you satisfy mine. Any time I ask.”
Her hand stilled. “Are you asking now?”
Applause broke out, covering the stifled groan he couldn’t contain. Lady Francine Montfort would be the death of him yet. “Nay, not quite. But I shall. Sometime tonight. Be ready.”
“I am ready now, my lord.” She turned to him and mouthed, Erasmus.
“I know,” he said with a smugness he didn’t try to dampen. “I smell you.”
He knew she got his meaning when her eyes widened and that fan started flapping again like a bird in flight.
Almost everyone in attendance was there not for the audible abuse being heaped on their ears by Lady Stanton’s unmarried daughters but in anticipation of the Grayson String Quartet, which was scheduled to perform selected movements from Haydn’s Opus 76 directly after the interlude. Francine had been looking forward to hearing the compositions for an age.
Yet she couldn’t deny how the anticipation for that singular experience paled in comparison to what she currently had waiting for her this evening—Lord Blakely and whatever intimate activities he thought to indulge in.
By the time the second youngest daughter screeched to a halt on her flute and Lady Stanton announced the interval intended for guests to stretch their legs, visit the “necessary”—if necessary—and mingle, Francine’s wrist ached.
She’d never clutched a fan so tightly, nor wielded it with such vigor.
Neither had she ever been so nervous—or excited—in her life. Muscles discovered during her illicit garden encounter last night contracted quite without her permission, anxious to repeat the performance.
Amid the milling throng of stalwart listeners, Erasmus escorted her to the refreshment tables, his proprietary air unmistakable. Accomplishing his part of their agreement, he was making his claim on her known to one and all.
As they roamed through the large rooms, Francine marveled at the attention they garnered from those present.
To the eyebrow-raised expressions of incredulity several of his friends directed their way, Erasmus only nodded and smiled, dismissing them and conveying without words his wish to be left alone.
To the multitude of behind-the-fan whispers and hushed murmurings—accompanied by many a dark or jealous look—from a number of the various “ladies” present, he turned a blind eye, ignoring the edge of their surprise and disappointment with such aplomb that she could only marvel further.
How fortunate! That she’d amassed the courage to approach him so boldly—no easy feat—and that he’d acceded.
It might be considered unfashionable to be obviously devoted to one’s intended, but given how he treated her, combined
with his insistence that their farce continue, even with her aunt’s immediate threat dispatched? Well, Francine was over the moon. To have such a man at her disposal—if only for a short time—why, ’twas the closest thing to a blissful marriage she could ever hope to attain. Add to that the amorous turn her plan had taken and she must be the luckiest woman alive.
As though he’d read the tumultuous thoughts tumbling through her mind, he gave her a pointed look. “You seem content. Shall I take that to mean you think you made the right choice, approaching me? I shall assume, then, that you are still willing to abide by my terms.”
“Of course. I am all that is agreeable.”
“Hmm. Debatable.” One of the men that had surrounded him last evening before she’d first approached him, started in their direction. Erasmus noticed and, with a single glance, a tilt of his head, sent the fellow scurrying away. Then he again fixed his penetrating gaze on her. “Well, Lady Agreeable, are you prepared to service me now?”
She laughed off his naughty teasing. “You make me sound like a dumbwaiter, my lord.”
“Ah, but dumbwaiters are particularly suited to servicing their masters, are they not?”
“For shame, my lord. I do not believe I have given you leave to claim mastery over me.” At least not yet. “And you know how very much I look forward to the professional quartet secured for later.”
“Mmm.” The sound was noncommittal; the look in his eyes almost pleased that she hadn’t jumped to do his alluded-to bidding without thought.
“Even so,” she commented lightly, taking a sip of the ratafia he’d procured for her as they claimed an empty spot along one wall, overlooking the milling throng, “I do not believe I could have selected a better man to enact my sham of an engagement with if I had spent days compiling a list of suitable candidates instead of mere seconds.”
His arm across her waist tightened, swinging her to his opposite side when a rather inebriated man, totally in his cups, staggered by. “Ah. There goes your Lord Crandall. Still happy that your first choice fell in with your scheme?” he countered just as casually.
Ensnared by Innocence: Steamy Regency Shapeshifter Page 9