Ripe for Seduction

by Isobel Carr

  The comtesse’s answering smile said it all. Yes, she felt the sting of it, too, even with the greater freedom Society allowed her.

  The rising volume of the crowd announced the approach of the horses long before Livy could sense them. The sound grew, moving toward them like a wave, and broke over them with the return of the pounding hooves. Livy stood on tiptoe to watch as the contestants shot past in a flurry of mud and flying grass.

  Spigot, his jockey in the earl’s red-and-gold silks clinging to his back like a limpet, was in the lead. Not by much, but it was enough that as they crossed the finish line, there was no doubt as to the winner. The comtesse let loose an unladylike whoop, and Livy found herself joining it, cheering the win.

  Devere slung a casual arm about her waist and tugged her toward him. A shiver of awareness raced up her spine, making her pulse flutter unevenly.

  “I knew you’d enjoy the races,” he said.

  “Shall we go collect our winnings?”

  Devere threw his head back as a laugh erupted out of him. “I warned your father I might well return you as an inveterate gamester. I don’t think the earl believed me.”

  “Well, it’s not as though I can find a race to bet on any night of the week. It’s not like becoming addicted to faro, or one of the other games men lose their fortunes playing at while at White’s.”

  “We shall have to work on that, too,” the comtesse said as the crowd began to disperse around them. “Or perhaps Vingt-et-un is a better choice. Plenty of women play that without causing a stir.”

  “Not in England they don’t,” Thane said.

  Devere’s sister blinked innocently. “Oh?”

  Thane shook his head as if in disgust, but the impression was ruined by the slight smile that curled up the corners of his mouth. “Oh, indeed, my lady,” he said.

  The comtesse shrugged. “I’ve seen ladies playing it at several parties since returning to England, and I still say we should teach Lady Olivia. Perhaps tonight at Bankcroft? Unless”—she caught Livy’s eye and then glanced about in mock horror—“you mean to force us to play silver loo.”

  Devere’s answering laugh became a cough as he attempted to cut it off. “Brat,” he said to his sister as the crowd around them finally began to disperse. He offered Livy his arm. “You’re utterly failing at the role of chaperone,” he threw over his shoulder as they began the short walk to where Reeves’s brother had sat in his carriage to watch the race.

  “Now, Rolly, really,” the comtesse said as they reached the viscount’s carriage and Thane handed her in. “I would have thought you of all people would be in favor of such a failing on my part.”

  Roland shook his head at his sister’s teasing salvo as he helped Olivia into the open carriage. Margo was right; he was rather counting on her lax chaperonage. Another house party without Lord Arlington’s presence was unlikely to happen again before Olivia attempted to give him his congé. Dappled with sunlight and with laughter filling her eyes, Livy was beautiful enough to make him think he would crawl over broken glass for the chance to bed her. The possessive rush that flooded through him at the idea made him think that perhaps simply winning his bet with Leo and Thane wasn’t going to be enough.

  “I’ll leave the two of you in Thane’s capable hands while I go and fetch your winnings,” he said, sealing off the part of his brain that couldn’t stop weighing his chances. “Behave yourself,” he added for his sister’s benefit.

  “What do you think we’re going to do,” Margo called after him, “kidnap the poor man and run for the border?”

  Roland let out a long breath as he walked. The border was starting to sound damn fine to him. How the hell had he got himself into such a mess?

  He glanced back over his shoulder. Olivia wasn’t watching him. She was turned away, talking to one of Norwich’s friends, one hand anchoring her enormous hat to her head. The Season wasn’t over. He still had time. Time to see if perhaps he wasn’t mad to think she too might be rethinking things.

  The crowd gathered around the self-appointed accountants-of-the-turf was large and rowdy, many angry at the upset and the loss of their money. A skirmish broke out between one offended party and the man who held his note. The bookmaker’s servant, who rivaled Thane for sheer size and looked to be a prizefighter, judging by his flattened nose and cauliflower ear, stepped in and hauled the man away. A second man, like enough to be a twin, stepped up to take the fighter’s place at the bookmaker’s shoulder.

  This was why he’d left his sister and Olivia behind. He’d seen brawls break out after a few particularly memorable upsets. Spigot’s win today was enough of a surprise to those who didn’t know the animal that there was likely to be many an angry punter in the crowd. The ladies didn’t need their day spoilt by being caught up in such a fracas.

  When the crowd of punters settled back down, Roland was able to find the man he’d placed their bets with earlier and present their notes for payment. Mr. Green’s expression soured as he stared at the slips of paper and then slid them into his book with a sigh.

  “You won’t get such odds again,” Green said as he counted out their winnings, looking as though each banknote was a knife cut. “But it was a magnificent race, all the same. You congratulate Lord Norwich for me, sir. He’s bred a true winner. I look forward to seeing him run again.”

  Roland promised to do so, tucked the thick pile of banknotes into his pocket, and shouldered his way back through the throng. He kept his hand in his pocket, fingers curled around the wad of paper as he walked. He made an unlikely victim, but there were always pickpockets at large public events. He’d lost his entire pocketbook that way at a mill when he’d been little more than a stripling, and he had no intention of making the same mistake twice.

  Roland circled, looking for Reeves. He found him with his father, watching proudly as Spigot was walked in circles, steam still rising off his sweaty back. “Mr. Green sends his compliments, my lord.”

  The earl grinned, clearly knowing that those compliments were tinged with annoyance. “I’ll just bet he does. I must have cost him a mint today.”

  Reeves shrugged. “He’ll recover.”

  CHAPTER 32

  The clock on the bedroom mantel chimed softly just as Livy’s maid was finishing rearranging her hair. It had taken some doing to work out all the wind-whipped knots.

  Frith twisted the last hairpin into place and stepped back so Livy could rise. Livy plucked her gloves from the tabletop and tugged them on as she surveyed herself in the mirror. The simple blue-and-cream-striped gown was perfect for a country house party. She adjusted the vandyked falling collar, smoothing the dags of blond lace as they fell over her breast.

  “Thank you, Frith,” she said as she headed out the door.

  Bankcroft, like so many grand country manors, was a great block of a house. Nearly all the guest quarters were lumped together in the East Wing. Livy found several of the other guests already in the corridor.

  “Prettier than the other one,” Lord William was saying to a dark-haired gentleman as they went down the stairs. “But then Devere always did have a penchant for blondes.” Livy froze in the doorway, waiting for them to descend. It was inevitable that she should be compared to Devere’s past conquests, but it didn’t make overhearing it any more palatable. A moment later, another door opened and the comtesse appeared. Livy shook off her annoyance as Devere’s sister took her arm and together they made their way down the grand staircase.

  They reached the drawing room just in time to be led by the earl and countess into dinner. It rather reminded Livy of one of the dinners at Holinshed after a hunt—too many men, and too much wine, accompanied by loud, raucous conversations where one topic quickly rolled into another.

  When the table was cleared and the port brought in, Lady Norwich invited Livy and the comtesse to join her for sherry in the drawing room. “Don’t dawdle over the port,” the countess said as they left. “Or if you do, don’t be surprised if the ladies and I go
up to bed and leave you to amuse yourselves.”

  With that threat hanging over them, the gentlemen trailed into the drawing room not a quarter of an hour later, port in hand. Livy finished off her sherry and poured herself a second glass. Devere met her gaze as he stepped into the room and the sudden snap of tension between them made her stomach twist.

  She’d felt it all day, the slowly growing something, impossible to define and equally impossible to deny. It felt as though if she took a step, he’d be drawn along with her, powerless to resist.

  He didn’t come directly to her though. He simply smiled and allowed his friend Reeves to waylay him. Livy sipped her sherry and tried to pretend she couldn’t feel Devere watching her.

  Lady Norwich settled in beside the fireplace with her eldest son and the viscount’s friend, Lord William, who’d been flirting with Livy after the race. When she’d shown him no encouragement, he’d transferred his gallantries to the comtesse without batting an eye. The men set about giving the countess a moment-by-moment depiction of the race, right down to the tale of the jockey who’d torn out the seat of his breeches.

  Livy listened with half an ear, nodding and murmuring agreement where it seemed necessary. Devere’s sister held out her empty glass and Lord William immediately turned his attention to her. He fetched the sherry from the buffet and refilled both their glasses, and then claimed the seat closest to her and commenced the same sort of ribald flirtation he’d attempted with Livy at the race course. The comtesse didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she seemed to enjoy sparring with the man.

  When Lord William’s innuendo became too lewd to ignore, Livy broke into the conversation. “Madame la comtesse was telling me that there was a mill before the race today. Did you attend, Lord William? I know some of the party rode out early especially.”

  Lord William gaped at her. Devere’s sister stared at her with knowing eyes. The comtesse knew Livy was defending her father’s claim on her, and her smile said she found something amusing about it.

  “Um, yes, my lady,” Lord William said, still clearly somewhat bewildered by the sudden change in topic. “The Irish champion versus Big Jem. A rematch after Jem’s loss last month.”

  Before Lord William could warm to his topic, his friends carried him off to the billiard room. The comtesse turned her attention back to the conversation between Carteret and his mother, which had turned to plans for Spigot’s next race.

  The tick of cards being shuffled caused Livy to glance across the room. A small group, including Devere, had gathered about a table and was clearly about to begin a game of some sort. Would they really teach her to play Vingt-et-un? She’d certainly seen the game played, and she’d heard the stories of men losing fortunes at the table. It seemed a ridiculous thing to do, betting thousands of pounds on the turn of a card. Especially as the men who so often seemed to lose at cards were those who could least afford to do so.

  Perhaps she could simply watch?

  “Come and see the garden,” Devere said, appearing suddenly beside the chaise. “It’s not a full moon, but the pond and Doric Temple should be beautiful all the same.”

  Livy rose, glancing at the comtesse. Her supposed chaperone merely waved her off. “Isn’t slipping away with me far worse than teaching me to play faro?” Livy said.

  Devere hurried her along with his hand at the small of her back. “Come along before anyone tries to join us.”

  They made their way out the long windows that adjoined the terrace and then moved quickly down the steps that led out into what appeared to be a vast garden filled with statues and topiary.

  “I take it you’ve been here before?” Livy said as Devere led her unerringly through the circling walkways that wound between the geometric shrubs.

  “Many times,” he said with a chuckle. “I’ve known Reeves since we were at Harrow. And since Carteret’s accident, the family holds many events here for his entertainment. Come this way. The reflecting pond, or canal really, is just beyond that hedge. There’s a small summer house at one end, built as a Doric ruin. It’s quite ridiculous really, a miniature Pantheon, complete with dome, but I’ve always found it to be a reliable bolt hole.”

  They stepped through an arched opening in the tall hedge, descended another set of steps, and then Livy found herself gazing at a long, narrow canal filled with blooming water lilies. The portion closest to the summer house was clear of them though, and its glassy surface reflected the pale white light of the waning moon and equally pale stone of the small temple.

  Four columns fronted the structure, supporting a frieze whose theme was impossible to make out in the shadowy moonlight. The loud plop of a fish breaking the surface of the pond startled her, and Devere laughed when she clutched at his arm.

  “It’s not funny. That fish must be big enough to eat a swan by the sound of that splash.”

  Devere’s only response was to laugh all the harder and drag her into the shelter of the summer house. His mouth was on hers almost before they crossed the threshold. Livy sucked in a breath and held it, letting the sensation of his lips, of his tongue coaxing hers to respond, wash over her.

  His hand came up to cup her jaw. Impossibly soft leather, stretched taut over his fingers, whispered across her skin. “You have to breathe, sweetheart.”

  A shaky laugh got her heart going again, and she inhaled sharply, breathing in the soft scent of the garden and the warm spice of Devere’s skin. The hand pinning her to the wall was digging into her ribs so hard she could feel each finger even through her stays. He might well have a penchant for blondes, but at the moment he was hers, and hers alone.

  Devere leaned in, warmth radiating off him, and kissed her again. Just a soft exploration this time, lips brushing hers, tongue sliding across her lower lip, inviting her to play. Livy opened her mouth and let him in, returning each caress, savoring the slowly mounting heat building inside her.

  His hand slid down her throat, across her chest, and delved into her bodice. He caught her ruched nipple between two fingers and squeezed. Livy’s breath hissed out of her as a jolt shot directly from her nipple to the aching spot between her thighs. She wanted his mouth on her, but she couldn’t seem to say the words.

  He was hard against her belly. In her mind’s eye, she could see him rampant and naked, as he had been at the pond. God, how she wanted to touch him. Devere groaned, his mouth hot on the skin just below her ear. The sound vibrated through her. Livy realized with horror that she’d moved to cup him through the fall of his breeches, her fingers tracing the line of his rigid cock.

  She yanked her hand away, her cheeks burning fiercely. Devere caught her wrist and moved her hand back, holding it over himself, guiding her.

  “Don’t stop,” Devere said, flexing his hips, rocking into her palm.

  He kissed her again, lips impossibly soft against hers. When Livy adjusted the angle of her hand and pushed down, Devere made a low, guttural sound of pleasure that sent heat flooding through her. Her knees began to tremble. It was all she could do not to sink to the ground and drag him down with her.

  Devere’s breathing grew rough, each exhalation rolling across her skin, making her shiver. His shaft was rock hard in her grip, the head distinct. She pushed the heel of her hand over it, and Devere groaned again. Livy loosed one of his breeches’ buttons, her hands trembling, eager to explore.

  He kissed her again, his mouth urgent, and then everything shifted as he lifted her and tumbled her down onto the long, low chaise that was pushed against the back wall of the little temple.

  He fumbled with her skirts, yanked off his glove with his teeth, and spat it out. His hands roved her thighs, sure and steady. Livy nearly climaxed as his fingers slicked over her, filled her, and Devere’s thumb circled on the taut peak at the center of her being.

  Livy’s breath caught in her throat.

  Devere buried his face in her breasts. One nipple slid above the edge of her bodice, and he sucked, hard. The sharp jolt that ran from breast to groin red
oubled her pulse between her thighs, echoed it back up into her chest, and sent it zinging to her toes.

  He pushed a second finger into her, and Livy found herself arching up to meet his hand, wishing with each stroke that she could risk exchanging that hand for his cock.

  “What?” he said against her breast, tonguing her nipple before biting down on it.

  “Nothing,” she lied, realizing she must have said something utterly incriminating.

  “That wasn’t nothing.” His mouth left her breast, and she whimpered in protest. Devere’s fingers curled inside her, finding a spot that reduced her to gasping sobs. “In fact, it sounded very much like you were giving voice to my own thoughts. There isn’t much I wouldn’t give to be inside you when you come, darling.”

  “I can’t.” Her denial sounded impossibly weak even to her own ears. “Can’t risk falling pregnant.”

  “Of course not.” His wicked, magical hand stroked and circled. Her thighs began to shake. “But not every pleasure carries the same risk.”

  His hips eased her thighs apart, the hard length of his shaft lay trapped between their bodies. When he moved, sliding against her, the head of his cock rode over every sensitive valley and peak. Devere set a slow, steady rhythm, each stroke driving her closer to climax.

  Livy locked her hands into the fabric of Devere’s coat and tipped her head back as his mouth came down on her throat. She whimpered and released him to cover her mouth with the heel of her hand.

  “Wet enough to almost make me think I am inside you,” he said, nuzzling into her hair.

  Livy bit her hand as her climax rolled her. The hollow ache that accompanied it was almost enough to make her reach between them and force him into place. Devere ground himself into her, his breath coming faster, rougher, then he growled, low and deep in the back of his throat, and she felt the hot spill of his seed on her skin.

  Roland pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and shook it out. He offered it to Livy, and when she looked at him blankly, he smiled and slid his hand back up her skirts to wipe away the evidence of their tryst.