After all, she was Louisa Deveraux’s daughter. Did she have the same allure, or was it purely by accident that he looked at her and saw something he wanted so badly that he followed her across London to get it?
* * * *
Harry still felt the burn of hot liquid in his throat, but he couldn’t taste tea. What he needed right now was a brandy.
Nineteen. Nearly half his age.
For the second time in one day, he felt the disappointment of thwarted lust. First he thought his fantasy woman was dead, now she was very much alive and equally unobtainable. Harry Blackwood liked women of all shapes and sizes, but they had to be older women. He certainly drew the line at a girl her age. She ought to playing with dolls and hoops, not grown men. With older women, he knew where he was and so did they. It was familiar territory, nothing unexpected or challenging. There was nothing as comforting after a hard day as the bed of an older, experienced woman. Or two. Or even three, on occasion.
And what had she just said? He looked at her warily.
“When I interview my young men for a post in this house, I always ask them to strip,” she repeated firmly.
Now why the devil would she tell him that? He shook his head, loosening his shirt collar with one finger.
“If you’re interested in staying here, you’d better let me see what you have to offer,” she added, picking up her teacup, arching her little finger and sipping delicately. “I never take on a new boarder without a thorough inspection. One can’t be too careful.”
Was the little brat toying with him now? He could have sworn her black gown was buttoned up right to her throat before, yet somehow there was more flesh visible suddenly. She sat forward on the edge of her chair, and her dark shape was exaggerated against the paler colors of the upholstery. Her waist was narrow, her bosom a promising swell above the strict lines of her corset, although not disproportionate with the rest of her. Her long, slender hands were always busy, even when the rest of her was rigidly still. Now they held her teacup, rubbing the china, tapping it lightly. She looked down at her tea, but he caught the sparks of amusement under her pale gold lashes, the smug twist of her lips.
He sat back in the chair. “At your age, you don’t even know what you’re looking for in a man.”
Her eyelashes swung up; her eyes sparked. “I know what appeals to my clientele, and that’s what’s important.”
Young chit. How could she know? He supposed it was possible, even at her age, but the reasons why and how she came to have that knowledge only angered him, so he bit it back down and smothered it.
“Well,” she said, balancing her teacup and saucer in her lap. “Are you going to drop your drawers or have you lost your gumption?”
It would serve her right, he mused, if he did strip off and show her. That would give her a shock. Or perhaps not. Her expression was world weary now and he couldn’t tell if it was exaggerated merely for his benefit.
“I thought you said I was too old,” he replied finally, hands gripping the arms of the chair.
She gave a half shrug. “I suppose some of my clients might like an older man.” Her tongue darted out, sweeping across her lower lip. “There are some with peculiar preferences. I don’t judge. Let me see what you have to offer, and I’ll decide if you fit our high standard.”
He’d been in this world a hell of a lot longer than she, and he knew this girl thought she was teasing him. But he was drawn in, fascinated by her lusciously curved and blooming rose-pink lips.
He pictured them making a damp trail down his chest, over his taut belly, and down to his—
Don’t think about that.
Too late. Damn.
“What sort of peculiar preferences?” he growled.
She smiled coolly. “I don’t gossip.” Leaning forward, she set her tea cup on the tray. Her eyes were shrewd and quick, her smile carefully measured, but apparently he’d annoyed her. He saw the anger trying to hide behind the forget-me-not blue of her wide eyes.
He scratched his rough stubble and observed her for a moment. Miss Christina Deveraux was more trouble than he needed. He shouldn’t be admiring her figure, her lips, or her elegant hands. He should be on his way to the train station, putting her out of his mind.
“Well, Mr. Blackwood. What are you waiting for?”
Evidently, she thought she could handle him. How long had she been in this business? And why hadn’t anyone taken her out of it by now? She ought to be rescued, whether she thought she needed it or not.
“You won’t get carried away and try to touch me or anything?”
Her right eyebrow lifted. “I’m sure I’ll control myself. Old man.”
“I hope so. Most women can’t in my presence.” He treated her to a grin that didn’t earn him any more than a slight sigh of impatience.
Fine. She’d asked for it.
Standing swiftly, he began to remove his waistcoat and then his shirt, dropping each to the chair he’d vacated. “How many men have disrobed for you in this room?”
“Too many to count.” She sat very straight, hands in her lap, eyes on his chest.
“And you don’t hire them all?”
“I’m very selective.”
He waited, hands on his hips.
“Trousers too,” she instructed softly. “I must see the tools of your trade, if you mean to work for me.”
He glowered at her, but she didn’t flinch. Cool as a cucumber.
“Show me, Mr. Blackwood.”
“I’d rather not,” he muttered, thinking he’d gone far enough. Any further would be dangerous for them both.
“Why? Something to hide?”
He knew he wasn’t hiding anything at all. His erection was visible through his breeches, and she had her eyes on it, boldly assessing the rigid outline. Harry had never undressed for a woman before. It was usually the other way around, but then there was a great deal about this encounter that was different. And even though his mind doubted, his body seemed to like her bossy commands.
“This is no time for timidity, Mr. Blackwood,” she added, lashes fluttering as her gaze lifted slowly upward. “Trousers down.” There was an edge to her voice now, as if she was accustomed to giving orders and being obeyed.
“What if your housekeeper comes in?”
“I can assure you, she’s seen it all before.”
“Not mine she hasn’t.”
“Oh, is there something peculiar about it then? Something extraordinary? Mr. Blackwood, the anticipation is killing me.”
The woman was asking for trouble. He was getting hot, and his cock wouldn’t take kindly to being teased.
His fingers began to work over the fastenings, fumbling in a mixture of haste and uncertainty. His trousers slithered down and crumpled to his ankles, followed by his linen drawers. Instantly her eyes widened. Despite her little act, she was, after all, shockable.
He stood before her, hands on his hips again. “Well?”
Her lips parted, she blinked. The busy hands, temporarily knotted together in her lap, tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Is it adequate?” he demanded.
Her eyes met his briefly and then returned to his stiff manhood. She nodded.
Tempted to laugh, he banked it. “Perhaps you’d like a closer look?”
Suddenly she stood, taking him by surprise. Her right hand clasped his balls. About to speak again, he fell silent. He’d warned her not to touch him, and she’d damn well defied him, pushing her luck. If she was older, of course, she’d know better.
Every muscle and tendon in his body stood for her attention, waiting to see what she’d do next. How far would she dare trespass? Very slowly, she stroked his sac and then her sensuous fingers trailed up along his hard length, tracing the veins all the way to the bulging crest.
He exhaled, staring down at her fair head, which came just to his shoulder. She was very close, her skirt brushing his naked thighs. He could smell the soap she used in her hair, but he couldn’t identify the
scent. Her hand was cool, soft, gentle and yet inquisitive. Her touch was everything he’d instinctively known it would be.
“I daresay at your age you’ve known a great many women, Mr. Blackwood.”
He hissed out a low, “Yes.”
“No doubt you were young when you lost your virginity.”
As her lengthy, nimble fingers closed around him, he expelled a light groan, his throat tightening. “I was fifteen,” he croaked.
“I assume she was older than you?”
He jerked his head in a quick nod, because he couldn’t speak just then with her deft hand rubbing, fondling, exploring.
“Much older?”
Again he managed a terse nod.
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Of course I did.” As far as he recalled, his first experience was over in two minutes at the hands of an eager widow more than twice his age. But those hands were nothing like the smooth, dexterous ones currently examining and testing his manhood. He glanced over at the door. Her housekeeper might come back for the tea tray at any moment.
She stroked him faster and he throbbed against her warm palm.
“Let me touch you,” he growled. When she said nothing, he raised a hand to her breast. A pleasant handful. Not too much, nor too little. She was trim but not slight. He felt the flash of grinding hunger, as if he hadn’t eaten in days. He ran the tip of his tongue behind his upper teeth and imagined his lips around her nipple, tasting her honeyed sweetness.
Blood surged through his cock, and she must have felt it grow.
In the next breath she slapped his hand away, but not until he’d counted her heartbeat thudding away with far less composure than she showed on the outside. “You’re the prospective employee, Mr. Blackwood. Do control yourself.”
He shook out his fingers, and when he swallowed, he tasted the fragrance of her hair liquefied on his hot tongue.
Finally, she released his manhood and walked around him, her hand caressing his hard buttocks. Harry bit down on a groan as he felt the tightening, red hot desire throbbing deep in his groin. He was dangerously heavy with it, and when she walked full circle and returned her hand to his organ, he knew she would feel the savage pulse beating through him. Any moment now, she’d be sorry she started this teasing.
But her caress moved up his torso and spread across the planes of his upper chest. Her fingers found his nipples and pinched them lightly.
He pressed his hips forward, his shaft sliding between the pleats of her skirt, wanting more attention. It took every inch of a restraint he never knew he had before to keep his hands down, away from her. He wanted her spread over the rug by the fire, her skirts up around her waist. When he closed his eyes, he pictured it; the firelight gleaming on her skin, her cries of delight as he plowed into her, wildly thrusting. A steel sword ripping into silk, tearing it to shreds so that it fluttered around him, wrapped its tattered strands around his sweat-soaked body. He felt her soft heat enclosing his shaft, his chest rubbing against her pert breasts, her gasping breath on the side of his neck and shoulder.
“Mr. Blackwood,” she said, stepping back, returning to her chair. “Would you be free this evening?”
Free? He couldn’t think for a moment. Free from what?
“I’d like you to take me…to a ball. I’m in need of an escort, and it occurs to me that you could serve the purpose.”
He scratched his chest. “An escort?”
“For the Duchess of Berwick’s ball.”
She calmly poured another cup of tea with those same lissome hands that had just intimately fondled his private parts. She was only nineteen, he reminded himself crossly. “You want me to take you?”
What was she saying? What exactly did she want him for?
He shouldn’t agree to go anywhere with her. She was too eager with commands. When she’d held him in her hand just now, he was rendered immobile, barely able to breathe. It felt good, yet it shouldn’t. She evidently enjoyed tormenting him and thought herself very clever, but she had no idea of the danger. How could she know? On the outside he was a gentleman mill owner, educated and civilized, with his feet on the ground; inside, he was a ferocious pirate captain capable of chasing her elegant, shiny new ship onto the rocks.
“Of course, you’ll need a bath and a shave, but we can provide you with that.” She paused, setting the teapot down on the tray. “Do you have any evening clothes with you? If not, I can see if one of my other men has something to fit.”
One of her other men? He scowled. “I have evening clothes.”
“Good.” She smiled. “That’s settled then.”
“Can I pull up my trousers now?” He was annoyed, but couldn’t understand why.
“Oh please do. I’ve seen all I needed to see.”
He pulled up his drawers and then re-buttoned his trousers, but didn’t have time to dress his upper half before the door opened and the housekeeper entered without knocking.
“Ah, Mrs. Draycott,” his young tormenter exclaimed, “perhaps you’d prepare a bath for Mr. Blackwood. I’d like him to look half-way respectable this evening.”
“Very good, Miss Christina. And shall I make up the bed in one of the spare rooms for him too?”
“No,” she replied, “that won’t be necessary.” Standing with the tea tray, she gave him one last, sweeping glance as he struggled back into his shirt. “Harry is only here for one night, and he’ll spend it in my bed. With me.”
She gave him a broad, self-satisfied smile before she walked out of the parlor; leaving both Harry and the housekeeper staring, not certain whether they’d just heard her correctly.
Chapter Four
As she tried to fasten the clasp at the nape of her neck, she realized her hands were trembling. This would never do. She simply must get a hold of herself. Tonight was an important night for her for several reasons. She was about to make her first appearance in society, she was about to meet her father, and later, she would enjoy another first at the hands of Harry Blackwood. Although it was convenient to get it all over with in one night, she couldn’t help feeling a trifle overwhelmed at the prospect. Would the world be an entirely new place by morning? Or would she feel the same when she woke to find dawn stretching over the sky? She sincerely hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed.
There was a light tap at her bedroom door, and she called out impatiently, “Come in.”
The housekeeper entered with a pile of freshly laundered linens and set them on the end of the bed. “Got that ink stain out of your favorite lace nightgown.”
“Mrs. Draycott, you’re a treasure.”
“And mended the lace on that petticoat you tore last week.”
“What would I do without you?”
“God only knows. Or perhaps the devil.”
Christina watched her in the dresser mirror. The old lady bustled around the room, picking up discarded clothes and shoes, turning up the gas lamps, and drawing the curtains. “I sense you’re angry with me, Mrs. Draycott.” She paused. “But you’re the one who brought him into the house. I thought you liked him.”
The housekeeper put her hands on her plump waist. “For the house I liked him well enough. I didn’t expect you to get this idea in your head. It’s not right. Your mother wouldn’t approve of this at all.”
“I just want to see what it’s like. What all the fuss is about. He’s certainly well equipped to show me.” She couldn’t get it out of her mind, in fact, ever since he shed his clothes in her parlor and stood for her approval. “For an older man, he’s in remarkably good condition. Apparently, he keeps his parts well-exercised. And trained. He controlled himself admirably, no matter what I did.”
“Miss Christina!”
“My dear Mrs. Draycott, my mother was the most sought after courtesan in London, mistress to dukes and princes, before she retired from all that to run this place. I hardly think she would be in a position to disapprove of anything I do.”
“She wanted something better for you. S
he wanted you to lead a respectable life.”
“Why? A respectable life didn’t appear to hold any allure for her. Why should it for me?”
The housekeeper marched around the bed, grumbling, “Your mother didn’t have any choice. She started out penniless and friendless on the streets of this filthy town. That’s why she made sure you had an education, learned to talk and act like a proper lady.”
“Yes, I know all that.” She turned from the mirror. “But what’s the point of all her efforts for me, if, in the end, I don’t have a choice either? You know how I like to go my own way. I always have.”
“You ought to be looking for a husband, having babies, and settling down.”
Clearly Mrs. Draycott wasn’t in the mood to listen to sense. It seemed as if people always wanted to give her advice, while never listening to any of the splendid wisdom she had to impart.
With a frustrated sigh, Christina held out her pearl choker. “Would you fasten this for me, please? For some reason the clasp is being difficult this evening.”
“Like you!” Huffing heavily, the housekeeper snatched the pearls from her hand and spun her around to face the mirror again. “This dress reminds me of one your mother once had.”
Enraptured (A Private Collection) Page 4