by Cheryl Holt
During the occasions she'd spied on Michael, she'd thought she was drawn to the decadent viewing because he was involved in the debasing exposition. However, she was compelled to realize that lovers could furnish a stirring display, whether she was acquainted with them or not. The carnal scene before her was disgustingly titillating. The nudity, the malfeasance, the inappropriateness—both of the
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couple's conduct and of her watching them—made it difficult to desist.
The man was good-looking—not as comely as Michael, of course—but he was blond, so comparison wasn't exactly fair. He had a fabulous male body, which she could readily deduce since he was naked, though all she could behold was his backside. With a cherubic countenance that promised innocence, he appeared to be an angel who'd fallen into the wrong room, but he was definitely a devil.
"I wish he'd turn around," she grumbled. She had an atrocious inclination to inspect his cock. She'd only perused one in her life and, while she was sure it was a magnificent specimen, she wasn't averse to covertly analyzing another.
"Why?"
"Because all I can see is his buttocks."
"Would you get down?" he hissed.
"Oh, my goodness!"
Clucking her tongue, she couldn't believe the spectacle into which she'd blundered. This was certainly more lewdness than she'd counted upon. Such a thing had never occurred to her! Was there no end to the eccentric, depraved behavior in which these guests would engage?
"What?" he grouched. When she didn't reply, he recited an aggravated, "What!"
At first, there'd only been the one woman, but a second female was in the room, and they were statuesque, buxom twins. The man had been facing one and kissing her, his tongue in her mouth and his fingers pressuring her nipple, when the other loomed in from behind. Rubbing her breasts over his back, she wrapped her arms around his waist and commenced fondling him.
He was wedged between the pair, and obviously in a state of bliss. The women were happy, too. They were kissing and cooing, never stationary, their lips and hands busy and adept.
Sarah couldn't look away. Shamefully, her nipples stiffened, her pulse accelerated. Perhaps Michael was correct,
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and her moral constitution had sunk beyond redemption—just like his own.
"Twins?" Incredulous, she shook her head and scowled down at him. "Really, Michael, how do they—"
Before she could complete her query, he lifted her off the stool and deposited her on the floor. Flattening his eye to the hole, he glared into the room.
"Oh, for pity's sake!" he growled when he recognized the erotic trio. "I might have known. John Clayton ..."
"The viscount... ?" In a whisper, she started to inquire as to the man's title, but Michael slapped the covering over the peephole.
"Don't close it," she admonished somewhat petulantly. "I'm not finished."
"Yes you are."
Prepared to scramble back up, she headed toward the stool, but he swooped her up and tossed her over his shoulder like an unwieldy sack of flour.
"Brute!" She pounded him on his back, but she was laughing too hard to have any effect. "Put me down!"
"No."
"Were those women twins?"
"Yes."
"Who are they?"
"His mistresses."
"Plural?"
"Aye."
"How do the three of them fornicate together? You didn't answer my question."
"And I'm not about to, so quit asking." He smacked her on the rear. "I swear, tomorrow I'll have that bloody thing nailed shut. Now, be quiet!"
Marching out to her bedchamber, he ungraciously dumped her on her bed. Then, he followed her down and, within moments, her curiosity about the threesome had vanished. She didn't need to ponder how others were trysting in the next room, for she was thoroughly overwhelmed by how she was accomplishing it in her own.
Chapter Sixteen
Pamela stared across the small table in her breakfast salon, and she wished that she'd had the formal dining room set. By its very nature, a country party meant that guests would arise at varying hours, so it was more convenient for them to grab a quick bite in the intimate room. However, with Hugh Compton occupying the space with her, she'd relish the excuse to observe him down a long expanse of oak— the longer the better.
She hadn't seen him in months, so she was surprised by how his dissolute lifestyle had recently ravaged his appearance. A blond-haired, blue-eyed, thirty-two-year-old dandy, he'd always been handsome, but intemperance and immoderation had wreaked havoc. His skin was now lined and sallow, his torso inordinately thin and sagging, his face aged and wrinkled.
The prior night of drink and revelry was taking its toll. His eyes were bloodshot, his fingers shook, and she couldn't help but suspect that his worsened condition was due to his current addiction to an exotic pipe an acquaintance had brought back from India and presented to him as
a gift.
On a frequent basis, he experimented with forbidden Chinese opiates. Liquid courage, in the form of stiff whisky, was also habitually ingested. He constantly over-imbibed on an abundant mixture of foreign herbs and alcohol.
A slight odor of smoke, spirits, and sex hovered about him and, in the mirror on the far wall, disapproval and dismay were reflected in her penetrating gaze, so she shielded her disgust.
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She couldn't tolerate Hugh, with his weaknesses and complaints, and she couldn't stand having him visit, yet she could hardly ask him to leave. An open invitation had been issued in London to those who might be interested and, as Hugh was one of the most perverted, lewd members of the ton, she couldn't gripe when he showed up, expecting hospitality.
As an earl, he was highly esteemed, and she couldn't fathom why, but then, she'd married into the aristocracy and, as an outsider, it was frequently puzzling to grasp the reasoning of those with whom he shared his blue blood. His peers, despite his particular flaws, liked and accepted him, so she had no option but to keep a smile pasted on her face and pretend she was glad he'd come.
It irked that he'd had so many advantages, that he'd been coddled and cosseted, and what did he have to show for it? A gambling habit that had bankrupted him, and a control problem that induced him to gluttony, be it with women, intoxicating drink, or any other vice.
Though she could sanction much in the way of decadence, she wasn't excited about the type of iniquity he would bring to the assemblage, which was definitely saying a lot. The evenings were already spent in behavior that even she—in her jaded condition—deemed disgusting, and Hugh would lower the offered amusements to new and despicable levels.
Then, there was Michael with which to contend. What if Hugh and Michael ran into one another? Michael rarely inflicted himself into the gathering, but he was wont to roam at night, watching and randomly participating, and she could imagine the uproar that would develop if their two paths happened to collide. It would be an unqualified disaster.
While Michael was a great friend, and she delighted in his presence, his personal problems were growing intolerable. She was happy to extend a refuge when he obviously needed one, however he'd become too unpredictable. His
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temper was at flash point. Evidence his thrashing of Brigham.
She didn't much care for Brigham, either, but regardless of what he'd done, she couldn't have Michael lurking in her stables, trouncing her various male guests when they displeased him. He'd never been the sort to suffer fools silently, and Hugh Compton was the biggest fool Michael had encountered in a long while. She was sitting on a powder keg that could blow at any moment.
With a regretful sigh, she determined that she'd have to ask Michael to depart. Given his prevalent volatile state, he would view her decision in the worst possible light, so the odds were high that she'd damage their eccentric camaraderie.
What a detestable turn of events, that she could only allow one of
them to stay, and the choice had to be Hugh!
"So"—Hugh dug into a pile of eggs—"how's my sister?”
"She's well; she's enjoying herself."
"Good, good." Imperiously, he held out his cup, not deigning to glance toward the servant who poured for him. The retainer was well trained and, if he had any opinion about the fact that he was serving brandy-laced coffee as Hugh's morning beverage, he gave no sign. "Any progress on the introductions we discussed?"
"Actually, no." She was disturbed by the conspicuous ingenuousness infused into his inquiry, and thus, absolutely on guard.
Looking at her plate, she stirred her breakfast around and around but didn't eat anything. Her mind whirred, striving to make sense of Hugh and his schemes. Without a doubt, he'd concocted some mischief concerning his sister, but Pamela didn't aim to augment the plot.
After her discourse with Sarah, she'd left Sarah in peace to treasure her holiday, and Pamela couldn't help wondering if Hugh hoped that she, Pamela, would spur things along by urging Sarah into a compromising position from which she couldn't extricate herself. Then, whatever tran-
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spired, the end result would be Pamela's fault. Hugh, as was his tendency, would remain innocent of any malfeasance.
He drained his refreshment then tendered the cup for refilling. "I allowed her to call upon you for the exclusive purpose of meeting with different gentlemen."
"Yes, but she hasn't seemed inclined to socialize." Pamela carefully sipped her chocolate, locking onto Hugh's glare with a guileless one of her own.
The pompous ass really believed that he had a say in Sarah's comings and goings! As if he could have allowed her to visit or not! Sarah was an adult woman and, at her advanced age, no longer under Hugh's thumb. She could do as she pleased. Hugh, with his customary dearth of acuity, hadn't realized that fact, but Pamela wasn't about to disillusion him. She liked Sarah very much, and she wasn't about to further Hugh's conspiracy—whatever it was.
As though their dialogue had conjured her up, Sarah entered, and Pamela peeked at the clock on the mantel. The hour was fast approaching noon, and she could barely prevent herself from clucking in dismay. From the first, Sarah had been the earliest of risers, yet in the past few days, something had caused a drastic alteration in her rigid schedule.
Pamela endeavored to detect as much as she could about her guests, so her proficient staff—spies all—meticulously tracked Sarah's movements. Luckily, there'd been very little to report.
For the most part, she ate her meals at off times, strolled the gardens for sun and relaxation, read in the library, and rested in her room. She appeared to be having the tranquil, restorative respite on which she'd planned, and Pamela would have been positively ecstatic had she not also been apprised that the adjoining door between Sarah's and Michael's chambers had been discovered ajar on two separate occasions. That the maid who serviced Sarah had thrice been rebuffed, with Sarah insisting through a barred door that she didn't require morning assistance. That a footman
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who'd been sent to fetch Michael's bathing tub, when Michael was purportedly absent from the premises, swore he heard Michael talking in Sarah's room.
Then, of course, there was the mysterious supper à deux, Michael had had delivered to his room, yet despite her dogged persistence, she'd been unable to surmise even a clue as to the identity of the woman he'd invited when, considering the sorts of females on the premises, his special guest ought to have been crowing about her conquest.
Not damning by any means, but enough to have Pamela kicking herself for placing the pair in such proximity. The instant Sarah had inquired about him that day on the verandah, Pamela should have removed him to another section of the house, but forcing Michael to other quarters would have been so awkward. With the mood he was in, he would have bristled at the mandate, and she couldn't bear the idea of upsetting him more man he already had been by others.
Besides, it truly hadn't occurred to her to worry, because she couldn't picture Michael permitting himself to be drawn into a jeopardizing predicament with the stunning beauty. His brother James, yes, but not solid, dependable Michael. He had more scruples and conscience than James, and he'd always exercised more restraint, but apparently in this case, lust had won out.
Sarah was mature enough to have known better, but Pamela wasn't about to chastise her. Michael was the kind of man who women couldn't resist, and Pamela—with her own unwarranted physical attraction to the rogue—comprehended his allure more readily than anyone. When he deigned to focus his attention, mere wasn't a female alive who could refuse him. Worldly women regularly scrambled to be the object of his dubious affection, so a person of Sarah's limited experience would have no defense against his substantial charms or expert lovemaking.
Plainly, she'd succumbed, though just how far down the road of passion she'd ventured was still in dispute. Taking into account Michael's sexual proclivities, Sarah was very
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likely beyond redemption, and Pamela laid the blame, such as it was, squarely at Michael's feet.
In light of his relationship with Hugh, his actions were reprehensible. Hugh notwithstanding, Michael was aware that, because of her stature and rank, he couldn't dally with Sarah, but Sarah—with her rural, unpretentious background—didn't recognize the dangers.
Pamela frowned, speculating as to how this would end, even as she was chastising herself for handling their budding romance so badly. The merest hint of intervention would have averted the entire, probable debacle.
She beheld Sarah before Hugh did, and she concluded that she ought to warn her or at least run interference. With a burst of feminine intuition, she was consumed by the notion uiat Sarah wouldn't be pleased to see him.
As Sarah stepped over the threshold, Pamela sneaked a hasty assessment: hair neatly combed, gown appropriate, demeanor perfectly poised. Yet, the sparkle in her eye and the glow in her cheeks removed all supposition. Sarah had unquestionably spent the night basking in multitudinous episodes of carnal bliss.
She's in love with the bounder, Pamela swiftly deduced, shaking her head at their folly.
"Surprise, Sarah," she welcomed a tad too heartily, "look who's joined us."
Sarah halted in her tracks, deep in thought, or perhaps, lost in her memories. Almost in a trance, she seemed confused by the brisk greeting and, with Pamela's indicatory gesture, she honed in on her incorrigible brother.
"What are you doing here?" she asked irascibly.
"Always a pleasure, dear sister," Hugh snarled, then smiled—for Pamela's benefit, she was sure—although she received the distinct impression that he'd throttle Sarah as soon as he had the chance.
Upon his oration, Hugh's company fully registered, and Sarah's countenance transformed. She'd been daydreaming, and the sight of her sibling had rudely awakened her to
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reality. Her spine straightened, and the glow that had preceded her disappeared.
"My apologies, Hugh. I've just risen. I guess I'm not quite myself." The corners of her lips turned up in a smile, but the salutation didn't reach her eyes, and she sounded deferential, but not very. "Rebecca had mentioned that you might be coming. How delightful that you've finally decided to attend."
Pamela studied the two of them. When they'd both been younger, and in London for Sarah's debut, their father had been alive to act as a buffer, so Pamela hadn't been able to gauge their feelings for one another, but she had no trouble now.
From the taciturn manner in which Sarah watched him, there was no love lost, but from what Sarah had endured due to his recklessness, her disregard was completely understandable. On his best day, Hugh was difficult, and whatever deference Sarah might previously have possessed had vanished. As was typical of his type of highborn male, Hugh didn't notice his sister's disdain. He would simply never assume that he wasn't liked or, at the least, greatly respected.
The siblings c
learly had no knack for idle prattle, which meant that tarrying with them would be unpleasant. She desired no knowledge of, or participation in, whatever conversation might follow.
Momentarily, she pondered if she should abandon Sarah, but one glance assured her that the other woman was equipped to manage Hugh. Sarah was filling a plate, seating herself, and nibbling on a scone, very much behaving as if Hugh was no more than a pet in the corner, admitted but ignored.
"Well"—Pamela chose the coward's avenue of retreat— “I’m sure you two have lots to catch up on. I'll leave you to your chat." She rose and went to the door, but not before pausing to peek over her shoulder at Sarah, and she was certain she spotted a love bite on her neck, though it was mostly shielded by a scarf. "I have a guest who must depart.
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Today,” she emphasized, but neither Sarah nor Hugh was listening. "I'm off to tell him good-bye."
Without delay, she headed for Michael's room
******************
Hugh lay on his bed and fluffed the pillows, the quarrel he'd just had with Sarah replaying in his mind.
The blasted woman! Arguing with him. Laughing at him. Why ... she had the audacity to treat him as if he was still a lad in short pants! With whom did she think she was dealing?
Though he was technically her legal guardian, the arrangement wasn't taken seriously by either of them, because Sarah wasn't the type of female a man could rule. She was too quick-witted, too self-assured, and too stubborn to be ordered about; she could make a man cower and
vacillate, induce him to distrust his purpose and objective. Even their dear, departed father hadn't known how to control her. To the dismay of both of them, she'd always behaved exactly as she pleased but, for once, he wouldn't permit her to call the shots.
"Not this time, little sister," he muttered.
His father's heir in every respect, his life was in London where pleasant diversions were available. He hated the country and always had, and he declined to waste his energy on any of the boring tasks that kept Sarah so enthralled. In his mind, it was sensible that they both aspire i to occupations they enjoyed—his being gambling, debauchery, and vice.