by Thea Devine
Perhaps that was the secret, Charlotte reflected as she eased herself into the room and behind Nicholas Carradine's chair. They were all little boys and they would respond to nurturing and discipline in equal amounts.
Dear Nicholas. She boldly touched his shoulder and then his severely cropped hair. Everything was straightforward and austere with Nicholas, from his dress right down to his deliberately acerbic manner.
But nothing would stop her now: she knew what was what, and what was where, for that matter, and it was only a matter of showing Nicholas that she was not the shrinking chicken-hearted virgin he had courted the previous year.
She boldly reached out her hand and stroked his hair and felt no rebuke when he shrugged it off. He was concentrating after all; Annesley had said he was down pretty far, and Coxe already held a handful of his vouchers in addition to a prime win on a bet they had made previously at White's.
He was not in a good mood, nor did he take his uncle's jabbing repartee kindly, even though none of this showed in his face or filtered through the expression in his voice. She felt it
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solely in the tension between his shoulders and the stiffness of his posture.
She was pleased to see Alice Cockbura wind herself around Annesley's shoulders as he continued his reckless play. Oh yes, and she whispered soft little nothings in his ear, delicious insinuations which cost her nothing, aroused him mightily and made her memorable to him.
There were smart young things parading around on the marriage mart this year, Charlotte thought, as she daringly ran her fingers around the collar of Nicholas' coat to graze the thin material of his shirt below the meticulously arranged neckcloth. They had been tutored well by mothers who understood precisely what was wanted in these days of tremendous competition among the newest crop of virgins who would supplant last year's eligible schoolroom misses (including herself) who had failed to catch a husband.
Of course one had to stand out. Look at that outlandish, flamboyant and altogether flagrant dasher they called Lady Desire. She popped onto the scene out of the blue; no one knew from where or who she was or her lineage or anything, and now everyone was talking about her and couldn't get enough of her, even Nicholas at the Ottershaw party, which had thrown her into a flaming rage.
Never again. No other woman would have Nicholas, she vowed, her fingers kneading his tight skin beneath the fine thin material of his shirt.
Only her. Only her.
She knew enough about it now, and she was watching at least three experts put these precepts into play: Alice Cockburn sliding her hand sensuously beneath the front of Annesley's shirt; Emma Acton already ensconced on Coxe's lap and stroking his face and hands; Sophia Spaulding with her arms wrapped around Dunstan Carradine's shoulders and cheek to cheek with him, alternately planting soft little kisses on his jaw and ear, and whispering to him those erotic little secrets that only she could know.
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The clock struck midnight, and Charlotte was emboldened further by the fact that Nicholas had not removed her questing hands. If she could just slide onto his lap, she knew exactly the place to begin the sortie of pleasure which would melt his anger and reserve and leave him on his knees begging her forgiveness and her hand.
She had nothing to lose. He would never reject her fully and openly here, amongst his friends and their mutual acquaintances. The purpose of the privacy was to provide an intimate setting for just such happenings, if one wanted to make them happen. Annesley was always and ever attuned to the needs of his friends. Everyone understood that whoever of the fair sex entered that room was tacitly giving herself to anyone who was interested.
Of course they never were not interested, but everyone understood that going in. There were no preselected choices, nor was it prearranged who would enter the card room.
No one watched, but everyone knew, and no one ever gossiped about it afterward.
Nicholas went down again, and his mood turned perceptibly sour.
Charlotte reached around his shoulders with both of her strong arms and encircled his neck, crushing his impeccable stock. "Let me comfort you," she whispered in his ear as they heard a hubbub from beyond the door that sounded strangely like a cheer. The noise got louder and louder, and Nicholas did not respond, and Charlotte boldly took her chance and pivoted around the chair and into his lap.
It ought to have caused an instant and discernible response, something she could have worked with and coaxed into life. But instead, he ignored her, he threw in his cards, he wrote out his voucher and handed it to Annesley, and he acted altogether as if she weren't there.
And the noise grew louder, and Emma Acton seized on the distraction to begin kissing Coxe with sensual abandon; and Sophia Spaulding had grown so bold with her
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caresses that Dunstan Carradine thought he might explode.
"A thousand a point the next go-round," Annesley said loudly and firmly even though he knew two of his compatriots were occupied at the moment.
And Nicholas, looking as if some insect had alighted on him and he was loath to brush it off. God, and Dunstan, in the throes of a delicious moment of euphoria at the hand of Emma Acton.
And sweet salacious Alice Cockburn, hanging around his neck and whispering carnal nothings in his ear. And wasn't dear Charlotte trying hard to arouse some response from hard hearted Nicholas?
And the noise, louder and louder, almost as if the crowd outside were looking in and cheering them on to that final licentious moment of ecstasy.
Ah, it was too good—he moved his legs as Alice's long slender arm snaked down his chest seeking the thrust, the purpose, the point of the evening, and her delicate little tongue snaked right into his mouth and claimed him to the biggest burst of applause, and the sound of the clock striking at half past the hour, then one last stroke till the half hour, and —
The door swung open and the noise filtered into the room like the sound of a booming cannon.
They froze at this unheard-of solecism.
And then they all looked up into the cocksure and knowing blue gaze of the elegantly and minimally dressed Lady Desire.
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The milkweed, she thought angrily as she watched the various couples disentangle themselves with a jaundiced eye. She has wrapped her tentacles around my lord and utterly stifled him. But of course it must be what he wants, else why would he be here?
God, Annesley thought, jumping up and pushing the door closed almost the moment she walked in. "You really must
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knock," he said gently, chidingly. My God, that dress, that body, those eyes . . .
"You really must be available to greet your guests," she retorted, not fazed one bit by his not-so-subtle rebuke. "My lord," she added, inclining her regal head toward Nicholas, "and Mr. Carradine. I have not had the pleasure of meeting the others, except, perhaps—" She looked at Charlotte. "Have we met?"
"Possibly in passing," Charlotte said silkily, "not worth remembering."
"My feeling exactly," Jainee agreed wholeheartedly.
God, the mouth on her, Annesley thought in awe. "Permit me, Miss Bowman: Mr. Coxe, Mr. Chevrington, whom I think you do know; Miss Cockburn, Miss Acton, and Miss Emerlin."
"I am pleased," Jainee said, but she was not pleased at all. The milk-wretch sat on Nicholas Carradine's lap like she had grown there and refused to move, not even to present the appearance of mannerliness.
She had staked her claim, quite obviously, and she was waiting to run the flag up the pole.
"Perhaps . . ." Annesley began, but Jainee held up her hand.
"I came only to pay my respects to my host," she said primly, quite properly she knew, "and of course I will now withdraw and mingle with your other guests. My lords—"
And she turned and opened the door and just walked out.
"Oh my God," Annesley breathed. "You know what they are all going to think, you know it . . ."
"They're all going to think
she has been compromised by one of you," Nicholas said savagely, speaking for the first time since Jainee had come in the door. He pushed Charlotte Emerlin off of his knees and rose to his feet.
"And I'll tell you what else, Annesley, damn it. They're all going to be taking bets on it tomorrow at White's, and I will wager you someone will claim the win."
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The rush of elation she had experienced earlier in the evening
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at both defeating her unknown watcher and penetrating the environs of Lady Badlington's gaming house dissipated as quickly as fireworks in rain.
She stamped back into the ballroom of Annesley's commodious townhouse in a fury. And it was not only Southam and that milk cow, it was also Lady Waynflete, rounding on her and accusing her of presenting herself where she had been most explicitly not wanted.
In truth, she had felt more than a moment's hesitation at accepting the rude and belated invitation to attend Annesley's select party. But she had decided for just that very reason: that the guest list was exclusive, and that Southam would probably be there, which would give her an opportunity to wag his tail with his friend's collusion and as much as say to him that his threats and ultimatums did not scare her.
And she had meant to turn the tables on Annesley as well, if he thought it would be a good joke to tweak her like this—pushing her away with one hand and leading her on with the other.
Well, that had all gone by the board: obviously the sanctum of the cards was euphemism for something vastly more expensive and carnal and she had barged neatly into the middle of it and shocked them all—except of course Southam, because nothing ever discomposed him.
But still, the whey-faced milkmaid was in place where she should not be and her hands were looking to find a place to be, and so be it: there were men who might faint at the touch of her hand as well.
She allowed herself to be drawn into the welcoming circle of them as she emerged from the card room. They plied her with questions, dizzying incomprehensible questions: "Who is winning? What were they doing? Is it true that Annesley hired the women who were with them? How far had they gotten? How far did they want to go? Was it true ... did they really . .. undressed yet ... ?"
And then the whole lot of them moved hastily aside as
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Nicholas Carradine came storming through the crowd.
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He knew exactly where she was: in the center of all the men as usual, and dressed in that flimsy bit of drapery she called a dress with every last contour of her body revealed to anyone who looked closely—which they all were doing, and worse, with that blasted strip of satin tied alluringly around her neck and her wrists over the elbow length gloves she wore.
And those eyes, that irritating smug, come get me smile: his hands itched, his groin ached the moment she walked in the door, the desired and uninvited guest. He could not begin to fathom how and why she had turned up at a function to which she had expressly not been invited.
That dress was an abomination — surely a year or two out of style; they didn't wear them quite so thin and clinging any more, with such low cut bodices and transparent fluttering sleeves . . .
He felt like shaking her; he had been sure he had scared her with his ominous demand for results.
Any other body would never have come flaunting herself publicly like this.
But any other body was not the huntress, he reflected grimly as he took her by the arm and wordlessly propelled her from the center of admirers to the outside hallway where the butler waited to serve the guests.
He disappeared in an instant at Nicholas' signal.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
As if he had a right to be angry with her! She could not believe his arrogance in the face of his own blatant pursuit of pleasure.
"Why, my lord, the same as you," she answered cheekily.
"Annesley issued you no invitation."
"But my lord, indeed—he had a change of heart, begged me to come and make his party into the event of the opening of the Season. Reams of prose about my beauty and affability and
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how sorely I would be missed if I held it against him that Lucretia Waynflete had neglected to bring me. Truly, and Lady Waynflete does not remember a thing about it, and positively hauled me over the coals for coming where I was not wanted.
"But my welcome, apart from the brief rudeness of my host, has been all anyone could wish. I would have been so sorry to have missed this party."
She could see his rage fairly growing with each taunting word, and she went on, adding wormwood to gall: "I will save his note forever. So prettily written it was, a fair example of a man on his knees to make amends. Very instructive and entertaining reading, to say the least."
"You never say the least," Nicholas exploded. "And the worst thing you could have done was capitulated at the last minute. They'll be talking about it for weeks."
"Nonsense, no one knows, except you, Lady Waynflete and Annesley. And he is not your enemy, my lord. At best, he wishes he knew how to approach me, because he would like to be a particular friend —but not at the end of the line. So it is perfectly understandable." She loved it—jab, jab, jab, little hits, little pricks hard up against his shell of impassivity, outwitting him again just when he thought he had her subdued and submissive.
But she would show him—him and every other presumptuous and arrogant lord in the whole of England who thought he could make the rules and demand that she submit to them while he flouted them.
Yes, she felt a tremor of fine fury engulf her at the thought . of that woman, that milk sop with her hands all over Southam mere days after......
"Annesley isn't at all particular," Nicholas said nastily, "and neither, it is clear, are you."
"While I must compliment you on your discrimination," Jainee shot back, "and your choice of the white-washed milkmaid as a partner in your pleasure this evening. Definitely a most particular taste, if looks are anything to judge by."
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"At least she keeps her mouth shut," Nicholas ground out.
"And what does she keep open, my Lord? How convenient for you."
He was going to throttle her, he really was, and right in front of several curious onlookers who were discreetly parading by the reception hall; no other woman in his life had ever spoken to him like this. He was going to —
"Oh, Nicholas—"
"Ah, the everlasting Miss Emer-milk ... no, wait—Livermilk ... ah, my Lord, the name escapes me, but it obviously does not you. It will be my pleasure to leave you in her hands."
"Dear Nicholas," Charlotte murmured, reaching for his arm, "the pleasure will be mine." And she loved watching the strumpet turn on her heel to stamp away—but Nicholas shook off her hand and went after the bitch.
"I think not," he said softly, dangerously, grasping her arm and hauling her back to him. "Charlotte, you will just have to find someone else to play with."
She pouted. "But I like playing with you. And everything was perfectly fine before this dolly-mop barged in. Ah, Nicholas, what could be better than an evening of intimacy in the privacy of a friend's home? She's nothing but a fanfaron, and every other man here would fight to pander to any inclination of hers; you need not feel responsible for her here."
"I am responsible for her," Nicholas muttered, but only Jainee heard him.
"Indeed, my lord," she said through gritted teeth as she repeatedly wrenched her arm away and tried vainly to contain her fury, "I am strangely in full agreement with Miss Milk-curd."
"How lowering," Charlotte retorted. "I fancy however if you just dropped your neckline another inch, you would not want for attention that you could milk for all it was worth."
"My dear Miss Milkwort, I believe you are the one squeezing the most out of the situation. It is perfectly plain that Nicholas prefers even my abrasive company to any offer you could make."
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"Ah, Miss Bov
ine—you mistake the matter: it is obvious he acts out of sheer courtesy and would relinquish the chore in a moment if there were but one chivalrous gentleman to take it on in his stead."
"Perhaps the more onerous task is returning to the sanctum with you," Jainee retorted, out of all patience with this rag-mannered doxy and Southam himself. It was just like a man, she thought virulently, to stand by and let women fight over him. He was probably enjoying it too, but he would soon regret that smug look in his eyes and the fact that he had said not one word in defense of either of them.
Charlotte laughed. "Then let him choose, Miss Bombast—let him decide."
"How kind of you to capitulate immediately, Miss Milkmouth," Jainee said silkily, "but do let Nicholas confirm it."
The bitch, he thought, his own feelings just on the edge of violence with her all over again. She was like a jungle cat, toying with her prey; huntress queen, the goddess pointing her finger and banishing the miscreant.
He wished he felt something for Charlotte Emerlin besides a vast well of distaste that was leavened with a curdling guilt that he had used her so badly.
For the first time it struck him how similar the two were in look and in height; but Charlotte was a pale version of the vjbrant Jainee Bowman, who stood impatiently beside him radiating a positively killing heat, while Charlotte flexed the aloof sang-froid of the aristocrat.
So the choice came down to ice or fire, and either way, his fingers would get burned.
"Nicholas, Nicholas—" Annesley came galloping to the rescue just as a good host should, "leaving so soon; my dear boy? I cant bear it. . ."
"I think / can manage," Nicholas said drily. "Lucretia insists that I remove her, she has caused trouble enough tonight, and Lucretia has no stomach for either seeing her
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