Ripe for Pleasure

by Isobel Carr

  “I’ve nearly finished my manuscript, and I was thinking of returning to town next week. Once I’ve handed it over to Mr. Nesbit, there should be no reason for Sir Hugo to continue his harassment, should there?” She turned her face away, hands fiddling with her skirt, pleating up the fabric.

  Leo let every conflicting emotion flood through him, run its course, and then drain away. His hands clenched, the knuckles popping.

  “No, no, you’re quite right. Returning should be safe enough.” Assuming that he could convince his cousin that there really was no treasure. “So if that’s your wish,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, “my coach awaits your orders. But I’d be happy to deliver your manuscript myself, if you’d trust me with the undertaking.”

  Viola bit her lip, choking down a sudden desperate sob. It would be so easy to stay. So easy to fall into the illusion that this was her home, that she really was the chatelaine of Dyrham. It was bad enough to want a man as much as she wanted Lord Leonidas, but it was infinitely worse to realize that she wanted a great deal more.

  If she could just get back to London, back to her own house, back to a semblance of normalcy, she might survive it. If she stayed here, every day Leo and Dyrham would work their way a little farther under her skin until she couldn’t live without them.

  And she’d have to, one day. His entreaty for her to stay held enough of an icy splash of reality to steel her. For the summer. He’d hoped she would stay until she had to be sent away to make room for his family. He couldn’t possibly keep her under the same roof as his beloved, horse-mad sister and brother with the tragically mundane names.

  “I find I’m missing London. Lady Ligonier writes that there’s to be a grand masquerade at Vauxhall and a balloon ascension in Hyde Park… Besides, we’ve torn so many of my gowns that I’ll soon be as naked as Eve if I don’t pay a visit to my modiste.”

  Her reasons sounded lame even to her own ears, but she could hardly blurt out the truth: that she had to leave before she fell hopelessly in love with him and Dyrham both.

  Leo continued to kneel beside the dogs, one hand on each, fingers making swirling patterns in their fur. His coat buckled stiffly across his shoulders, looking as uncomfortable as she felt.

  “I’ve no objection to you naked as Eve in Eden, but I’ll admit it might be a tad problematic when there are guests.” He stood. Pen gave a protesting whooing bay and pawed at his boot. “I can escort you back on Monday if that’s acceptable.”

  Viola nodded, forcing a smile that felt like the grinning rictus on a puppet’s face. The urge to touch him overwhelmed her, and she put out a hand to draw him near. He helped her up, hand engulfing hers, gripping it, hard.

  “Don’t look so stricken, my dear. You’ve every right to order your life as you please, and if it’s London you want, then so be it, though I admit I prefer life here.”

  Viola squeezed his hand back and wished his green eye didn’t look so defeated. She preferred it here, too. That was the problem.

  The steps of the carriage fell with the sound of a death knell, a series of jarring metallic clanks that ended with an ominous clang. She was home.

  Sunlight reflected off the pale stone of her house, blinding her momentarily. She missed her footing and stumbled as Lord Leonidas handed her out. Beads of sweat glistened on his brow and lip. He dabbed them away with his handkerchief, then rubbed at his face to clear the fine layer of dust that seemed to coat everything. She could feel it on her own skin like a mask.

  At the door he paused, eyes squinting against the light. “I’ll leave you now, ma’am.”

  Viola tightened her grip on his arm, and beneath her hand, the muscle spasmed. She clung harder as her stomach twisted. He was about to give her her congé. “Will you be returning tonight?”

  The tense lines about his eyes faded a bit. “If I’m welcome, yes.”

  Viola let her breath out in a rush, a laugh catching the tail end. “You’re not just welcome, my lord.” She pressed close, hands spread over his chest, lips finding his for a brief moment. “You’re expected. I’ll tell Mrs. Draper to have dinner prepared at eight, if that suits you.”

  Leo nodded, brushed his lips over the back of her hand, then turned and ran lightly down the stairs. Pen whined and nudged her hand with her head until Viola responded and scratched her ear.

  Panic subsiding, she stood on her stoop and watched until he, Meteor, and the coach all disappeared around a corner with a final flick of the gelding’s long black tail. Pen turned to investigate the entrance hall, and Mrs. Draper practically seethed with disapproval.

  “His lordship’s man fetched me home this morning, ma’am. I’ve done the shopping, but if you want anything particular for supper, you’d best tell me now so I can send Mary back out for it.” She eyed the dog again and stiffened her spine. “I shall have to send her out anyway, given that no one informed me about your new pet, and I’m certainly not feeding her the prime beef I bought for your table.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Mrs. Draper. I’m sure whatever you intend to serve will be fine. As for Pen, she’s happy with scraps.”

  Mrs. Draper escaped to the kitchen, her mumbled, incoherent protest following her down the corridor. Viola swept up the stairs, wiping her fingers over the dusty railing. She brushed her hands clean on her skirts.

  Odd that. There was a layer of fine dust over the entire house: the paneling in the corridor, the rug on the floor, even the knobs to the doors.

  Viola fretted and plotted as the hours passed. Finally, she collapsed into a chair before her nerves caused her to worry a hole in the Turkey carpet in her parlor. Her maid was moping below stairs, clearly resentful of having been separated from Leonidas’s footman, who’d been left behind at Dyrham. Viola realized with a jolt she’d never asked about Nance’s Midsummer-men. Had they portended true love, or had they reared away from one another in aversion? Did she really want to know?

  Pen grumbled in her sleep. The dog had long ago eaten her supper and fallen asleep on the chaise she’d promptly claimed as her own. Pen was seemingly content no matter where they were.

  Lord Leonidas was late. That simple fact hung over the evening like a shroud. Viola damped down a wave of despair. The ormolu clock on the mantel chimed nine times, and she found herself fighting back tears. She sat listening to her heartbeat, to her dog’s soft snores, and the ticking of the clock. Nothing was in time with anything else. Each sound grated, shredding her nerves further.

  Mrs. Draper finally shooed her into the dining parlor and forced her to eat. Viola pushed the stewed carp around on her plate. He wasn’t coming. The food turned to chalk in her mouth, making it impossible to swallow.

  She put the plate on the floor for Pen and refilled her wineglass. She drained it in one long draught. She was going to bed. And she wasn’t going to get up for a week. Maybe two.

  She was at the top of the stairs when a loud knock arrested her progress. Her hand shook, and she gripped the railing tight. The wine in her stomach swirled with sickening power, and her pulse fluttered with it, battered like a leaf in a storm.

  She could hear Mrs. Draper’s voice, followed by Lord Leonidas’s, then the rapid sound of his boots on the stairs. She twisted about to make it look as though she were descending.

  Leo reached the landing and rounded the corner. “I’m so sorry, my dear. I’ve already made my apologies to Mrs. Draper for ruining her supper. I was unavoidably detained.”

  Relief turned to anger, quick as a hawk snatching a rabbit from a field. Viola forced herself to smile as the urge to slap him made her fingers flex. A protector being late had never bothered her, had certainly never sent her into a rage. It was his right to keep her at his beck and call.

  But Leo was not her protector, by his own design. He wasn’t paying for the privilege of her indulgence.

  He continued up, stopping when his eyes were on level with her own. “I truly am sorry. I meant to send a footman with a note. The women of my family have descen
ded like the monstrous regiment they are. There was no getting away sooner.”

  One hand snaked out, and his arm slipped around her waist, pulling her down a single step so that she was brought up against the hard wall of his chest. She caught her lower lip between her teeth.

  His eyes crinkled with mirth and relief. “See there, you’re halfway to forgiving me already.” He dipped his head, lips tracing her ear, the heady scent of Bay Rum and clean skin surrounded her. Her fingers curled into his lapels of their own accord.

  “Have you eaten?” Her question came out barely louder than a whisper.

  He shook his head, hands sliding over her hips.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No.” He pushed closer, lips finding the pulse point just below her ear.

  Her breathing hitched. “Would you like a drink?”

  He laughed, the sound bouncing back at them in the narrow stairwell. “Not just now.”

  He kissed her hard, pressing her into the wall. Her skirts were up, and her thighs were gripping his hips before she quite knew how it had happened. He pushed inside her, arms locked about her, one hand fisting into her hair.

  She didn’t remember being lifted, couldn’t begin to explain when or how he’d freed himself from his breeches. It had all happened at once, as though their melding was some kind of clockwork toy. A naughty version of the chess-playing Turk that had been on display in London just last season.

  And she responded as though her body—his body—knew the exact motions necessary to drive her heedlessly, helplessly toward her release. Her hands began to tingle. Her toes curled, the arch of her foot fighting against the unyielding sole of her shoe. And then, poised on the cusp, he came instead, his body pinning her to the wall as he pulsed within her.

  Her breath came out with a sob of disappointment. She’d been so damn close. Too close to even think of pretending. Close enough to ache with the loss of it.

  “Good Lord, Vi.” He rocked gently against her, fabric working roughly over her clitoris. She tried to catch her breath, but it hitched uncontrollably as he adjusted his position and the angle of their joining. “There’s a bed not thirty feet away, and I’m tumbling you on the stairs like a lad having a go at a housemaid.” He chuckled, head resting against the wall, breath stirring the curls at the nape of her neck. “I’m not usually so hasty or inept.”

  Viola smiled into his collar. Relief that he’d arrived, late or not, thrummed through her. Triumph that he wanted her so badly was singing in her blood. She kissed his neck, lips and tongue and teeth sliding over the spot below the ear he always seemed to favor when doing the same to her. He made a happy, rumbling sound deep in his throat, and his cock stirred within her.

  “I believe you know how to find the bedroom, my lord. Make it up to me.”

  CHAPTER 22

  The previous evening’s rain had given way to a soft, foggy morning. Trees and eaves dripped; Leo’s lashes collected moisture that had to be blinked away. Meteor shook his head, and his bit jangled, the sound seemingly muffled by the enveloping cloud.

  Leo posted lazily alongside his sister as they made their way down Rotten Row. He’d returned to his parents’ house in the predawn hours to find Beau already dressed in her habit and sipping coffee while she pored over the previous day’s Morning Post.

  Beau, in typical fashion, hadn’t so much as batted an eyelash. She’d simply blown into her coffee cup and said, “If you change quickly and come riding with me, Mother need never know you’ve been out carousing like a tom.” Then she’d flipped up the paper in a perfect imitation of their father’s technique and soundly ignored him.

  After a hurried cup of coffee, he’d allowed her to drag him back out for a morning ride. Leo looked around the deserted park. “No assignation, Beau?”

  She threw him a saucy glance. “If there were, I certainly wouldn’t have invited you. I’d have brought Ezekiel, who knows very well how to keep a secret.”

  “You would have, if you wanted to make a point with the poor man: Giant brother, beware ye who attempt to trespass.”

  “I’ve been in town for less than a week. I’ve hardly had time to set up a flirt. I’m not you. Who is she, by the way?” Her voice took on a quick, eager quality. “Everyone seems to know, but no one will tell me.”

  Leo shook his head. “Good Lord. You haven’t been asking people about me, have you?” Her answering laugh told him clearly that she damn well had been. “Are you determined to brand yourself as the fastest thing Scotland has ever produced?”

  Beau made a face at him. “Bah. It’s not as though I’m the one keeping a mistress—or a mister—or whatever you’d call a male courtesan. Why don’t women keep them anyway? It seems dreadfully unfair. And the only person I asked was Sandison.” She sounded highly disgruntled. “All he did was threaten to put me over his knee. Besides, even I know Dally the Tall is the fastest thing Scotland’s ever produced, including poor Gunpowder here.” She gave her horse a conciliatory pat, as though he were aware he was being disparaged.

  “Beau, so help me…”

  “So help you what, Brother? You’ll tell Mother on me? I’m sure she knows by now. You have a mistress, and I’m a lost cause. Augusta was having vapors over something last night, and unless our brother has gambled away her considerable dowry or taken a mistress of his own—which I’ll admit is doubtful—it must be something to do with you.”

  Augusta. Wonderful. His brother’s wife was devilishly high in the instep and prone to excessive displays of morality.

  “You needn’t sound as if you wished he had.”

  Beau made a rude sound by way of retort, and Leo couldn’t quite bring himself to disagree. What Arthur saw in Augusta he’d never been able to figure out, but they rubbed along happily enough, as three children in four years surely proved. And they did it mostly in Scotland, which was one of the many reasons he chose to make his home here.

  “You can tell me now, or I’ll ask Charles when he comes to escort Mother and me to the theatre. And you know Charles will tell me, if only to twit you.”

  Leo’s jaw clenched. Meteor gave a disgruntled crow hop, and Leo forced himself to relax. “You’re going to be the death of me, brat.”

  She grinned, clearly aware that she’d won.

  “Promise first that you won’t bring this up with Mother.”

  “I promise. Now tell me, is she very beautiful?”

  “Yes, very.”

  “And are you terribly in love with her?”

  The word “yes” was on the tip of his tongue. His teeth rattled with the force of holding the word back. Dear God, there was a pretty pickle. “She’s a widow, and I like her well enough. That’s all you need to know.”

  “Have I met her?”

  “No, and you’re not likely to do so.”

  Beau’s smile grew, and her eyes took on a roguish look that he knew all too well. “So she’s the kind of woman who’s lucky enough not to have to behave herself at Almack’s or pretend to enjoy herself at Lady Colpepper’s soiree or Mrs. Danhurt’s Venetian breakfast.”

  “Beau!”

  “Leo!” she parroted back in the same affronted tone. “I’m two-and-twenty. I’ve been abducted twice and lived to tell—or not to tell rather—the tale. I’m not a child.”

  “Then do stop acting like one,” he retorted, at a loss as to how else to respond. Perhaps they should have left her to Granby that last time… if only she hadn’t stabbed him. It was rather poor form to force one’s sister to marry a man she’d maimed.

  “Fine,” Beau spat out. “I suppose I’ll ask Charles after all.” With one last, defiant glare, she urged her gelding into a canter and quickly pulled away from him. The fog swirled about her mount’s legs as though he were preternatural, a creature of legend leaping forth from the pages of one of the tales their grandmother loved.

  Leo trotted after her. Rotten Row ended not too much farther along, and she’d have to return momentarily. If he ran her down, he was likely t
o get her crop across his cheek for his trouble.

  Pride swirled within his chest. It was very hard not to love Beau, even when she was behaving poorly and causing scandals. No, he smiled as she reappeared like the queen she was named for, delivered by the mist. It was because she behaved outrageously—as he would himself—that he couldn’t help loving her.

  • • •

  Charles handed his hat and gloves to his uncle’s butler and stepped past him into the hall. Nothing had changed since he’d first come here as a child of four. The same ugly Chinese vase stood on a table beneath a landscape of the Lochmaben ancestral seat in Scotland, a drafty stone pile, part castle, part Jacobean manor house. In the painting, the trees were smaller than he remembered, but otherwise it was an accurate enough representation.

  His aunt greeted him with a forced smile, but his cousin Beau leapt up, stormed across the room to kiss his cheek, and dragged him over to sit beside her on the settee. Lady Glennalmond nodded at him over her tambor frame.

  Cold bitch. She always had been. She’d made it perfectly clear over the years that she thought him an interloper. He dragged his gaze away from his eldest cousin’s wife, turning his attention to Beau.

  “Is the dowager not with you?” he asked.

  “I most certainly am, Charles dear.” He turned to find his grandmother being escorted in on the arm of his cousin Leonidas. His mouth went dry, and he swallowed thickly. Wasn’t Leo supposed to be in the country with his slut?

  Charles rose to give his place to the dowager, then followed Leo over to the buffet, where his cousin was pouring himself a drink.

  “Hello, Cousin.” Leo smiled, clearly pleased with himself.

  Charles gave him a tight-lipped nod, visions of pounding his cousin’s head in dancing just behind his eyes. “I’m surprised to see you tonight,” Charles said. “I would have thought you’d be otherwise occupied. It’s amazing how dangerous London’s become. Nothing seems safe anymore.”