Joss and The Countess (The Seducers Book 2)

by S. M. LaViolette

  The demon whose fingers had been inside her—the vulgar, crass, cruel magician who’d said and done those things to her? He was gone.

  She could only drop her eyes in shame. They landed on his hands, one of them bare and clutching his glove with white-knuckled fingers.

  He’d given without taking anything for himself.

  Why?

  Because she employed him?

  How else was a servant supposed to respond when his mistress demanded such things? Aunt Giddy demanded.

  Self-loathing flooded her belly and Alicia tore her eyes away from him and looked out the window, but there was nothing to see—nothing but her own mortified reflection.

  Across from her he gave a barely audible sigh and knocked on the roof.

  “Take us back home,” he ordered coolly when the vent opened.

  They rode back in silence.

  Chapter Ten

  Alicia only managed to stay away from Gormley four days this time.

  She’d thought—prayed—that she could just ignore that evening, but each day the memory took up more space in her mind—and in her dreams.

  She needed to speak to him and clarify what had happened. She needed to promise him it would not happen again.

  Or . . .

  Alicia buried her face in her hands. Or what? Just what was it that she wanted from him? To make it happen again?

  Before she could stop herself, she rang for Maude.

  “Fetch me the plainest hat and cloak I own,” she said when her maid appeared a few moments later.

  Maude squinted. “It’s past midnight, my lady.”

  “I didn’t summon you to ask the time, Maude. I asked you to fetch me the plainest hat and cloak I own.”

  “You’re going out, my lady?”

  Alicia gritted her teeth. “Yes.”

  “Shall I call for the carriage?”

  “Did I ask for the carriage? Just the clothes, Maude.” Why were these things never as simple as they seemed in her imagination?

  “Do you want me to have Gormley go fetch a hack?”

  “No. All I want is the cloak and hat.”

  “But—”

  “Maude.”

  The older woman rolled her eyes. “Fine. I suppose you want that rig you used when you were seeing Sir Henry and—”

  “Yes, yes, that will be fine.”

  Lord! As if Alicia wanted to be reminded of the useless lover she’d chosen first—the one before Byerly.

  Maude went to find the garments, moving at a speed that would have shamed even a tortoise.

  She returned with pursed lips and a plain gray servant’s cloak. They locked eyes and Maude’s narrowed, her expression judging and assessing. Alicia snatched the cloak from her.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to summon somebody for you, my lady?”

  “No, Maude, I do not want you to summon anyone. What I would like is for you to give me the hat I requested.”

  “If you do this, you know you’ll have to discharge him.”

  The words only stung because she’d been thinking the very same thing herself. “Nonsense,” Alicia said, tying the cloak at her neck. “Besides, I am merely going to thank him for—well, something. It’s none of your affair.”

  Maude’s expression loudly proclaimed what she thought of that.

  Alicia heaved a sigh. “Very well. Let’s say—just for the sake of argument—that you are correct and I am going to visit him. I’ve never had any trouble—” she broke off as an image of Byerly’s rage-distorted face floated to the surface of her memory like a bloated corpse. “Fine,” she amended. “I usually have no trouble afterward. I didn’t with Sir Henry—did I?” She sounded desperate even to her own ears.

  Maude tied the plain black ribbon on the straw bonnet and fixed the veil. “It might not bother you, my lady. But what about him?”

  Alicia opened her mouth, but then closed it. Why bother lying to Maude, or herself. The truth was, she wanted him: consequences be damned.

  ∞∞∞

  Joss was reading when the knock came. He glanced at his watch: it was just past midnight. He put a marker in his book and set it aside, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair.

  Annie had sneaked into his room again this week.

  This time he’d told her—in no uncertain terms—that this had to stop. Her eyes had watered and she’d fled, leaving him feeling like a beast for crushing her spirit.

  He doubted it was Miss Finch as Lady Selwood was staying in tonight. Besides, the countess had been avoiding him after the episode in the hackney. Even so, he’d dressed for her summons every night, just like some lovelorn, neglected swain. And when she failed to call for him, he went to his bed and fisted himself raw to the memory of her spread across his lap.

  There was another knock, sharper this time.

  It had to be Annie.

  He went to the door and yanked it open, his mouth already open to deliver a scolding.

  “Gormley.” The woman across from him was shrouded in a rough, gray cloak, the type of thing a servant girl would wear. She wore a broad straw hat with a veil, again, a rude garment that was cheap and ill-made. But he would know her anywhere, and he certainly knew that cool, commanding, and exotically accented voice.

  “Lady Selwood.”

  She flinched at the name and glanced to both sides, as if somebody might have overheard. “May I come in?”

  Joss looked down at his clothing—his shirt and trousers—grimaced, and looked up at her. He opened his mouth, but she waved a hand.

  “What you are wearing is adequate.”

  Joss opened the door wider and stepped to the side.

  She entered and Joss closed the door, trying to arrange his features into something other than stupefaction before turning. But she wasn’t even looking at him. Instead, she was glancing around at his small room as if she’d not seen it before.

  “I’ve not seen these quarters before,” she said, echoing his thoughts. “I purchased the house without looking at it,” she explained, her eyes flickered away from his and stopping on the small table beside his chair. “You were reading?”

  “Yes.”

  Her lips twitched into a smile. “More Shakespeare?”

  “Not this evening, my lady.”

  She crossed the small room and picked up the book. “You are reading Common Sense.”

  Joss clasped his hands behind his back and relaxed his weight on his heels. “Yes, my lady.”

  “He was a countryman of mine.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  She replaced the book on the table and turned, her gaze skittering around the room. She was as nervous as a cat, her beautiful full lips turned down at the corners as if she were unhappy to find herself here.

  Joss realized she was still standing.

  “Would you like to sit, my lady.”

  She exhaled a long, shaky breath. “Yes.”

  “May I take your cloak?”

  “Oh, yes.” She divested herself of the cloak and then removed the bonnet, turning it in her hands. She wore a plain gown of white muslin that made her look younger and almost girlish—as did her somewhat dazed expression.

  Joss stood across from her, hands behind his back, and waited silently like the good servant he was for what he knew was coming.

  When she looked up at him, her eyes were unusually dark. “I never thanked you for that night at L-lord Byerly’s house.”

  She had, but he was hardly going to correct her.

  She was so bloody gorgeous it hurt to look at her.

  He should have been overjoyed that she was here—his cock had certainly perked up and taken notice—but his joy was tempered by regret.

  Joss didn’t fool himself; she didn’t want him. She wanted a service he could offer.

  He realized she was still staring up at him, waiting for an answer.

  “Protecting you is what you pay me for, my lady.”

  “And is that the only reason you d
id it?”

  Joss blinked at the heat in her tone. “Of course not, my lady.”

  She seemed to deflate at his words. “No, of course not. I know that. I beg your pardon.” She looked so young, lost, and forlorn.

  Joss knew he was lost when his strongest impulse was to take her in his arms and comfort her.

  But it wasn’t comfort that she’d come for.

  So he once again pushed aside his foolish desires and prepared to give her what she wanted.

  ∞∞∞

  Alicia didn’t understand why things had become so awkward. In her mind, she’d simply approached him and said what she wanted.

  ​Reality was proving to be something infinitely more complicated.

  She’d consumed two glasses of brandy before making her way to the carriage house. At the time, she’d felt confident and fearless. Somehow all that changed the moment she began to mount the stairs—to enter his domain. And now—now that she sat in the chair in this tiny, sparse impeccably clean and tidy room—a room that smelled intoxicatingly of him—she’d never felt so mortified in her entire life.

  What had she been thinking?

  He was standing across from her, his hands behind his back, feet spread, eyes downcast. It was the posture of an obedient servant waiting for his mistress to speak. His lids were so low she could hardly see his eyes. Not that it mattered since he never gave anything away.

  The silence grew, along with her embarrassment. Her brain encouraged her, strongly, to head for the door. To run.

  All the while she dithered, he watched.

  “What is in there?” she blurted, pointing to a door.

  His expression didn’t change, but she could tell her question amused him; as if he knew of the struggle inside her and that amused him, too.

  “I believe it was meant to be a lumber room or perhaps a small bedroom. But I use it for practice.”

  “Practice?”

  “Pugilism, my lady.”

  “Ah.” She paused. “How does one practice pugilism, exactly? I know men do it all the time at Jacksons.”

  “That would be sparring, my lady.” His lips curled in a manner that shrieked derision. “Or pretending to spar with men like John Jackson, who knows how to butter his bread.”

  “What do you keep in there?”

  “There are two bags and a pallet.” He raised his eyebrows. “Would you like to see?” Before she could answer, he picked up the candle from beside the chair and crossed the room in a few long strides, his body brushing hers in the close confines of the room. He did not apologize for touching her.

  He opened the door, put the candle in the wall sconce, and stood aside.

  The small room was scrupulously clean and tidy, just like the rest of the small quarters.

  The “bags” he mentioned were made from canvas. On the floor was a thin leather pallet. It was just as he’d described.

  “What do you do in here?”

  “Exercises.”

  She frowned at the unfamiliar word. “Exercises?”

  He nodded, crossing his arms and leaning against the door frame, not the posture of a well-behaved servant. “Just like drills or practicing for the piano or grammar.”

  Alicia tried not to show how his knowledge of such things surprised her. Why should it? She already knew the man was better educated than she was. Not that that was saying much.

  “It is a way to keep physically fit,” he added.

  She turned toward him at that, her eyes roaming his body, as if to test the veracity of his words. Yes, he was physically fit. She swallowed and looked up.

  “Do you know why I went to Lord Byerly’s house?”

  He looked so startled that she couldn’t help smiling.

  “I, er, beg your pardon, my lady. Do I know why you went to his house?”

  Alicia was beginning to gain a sense of him, and this was one of his favorite techniques, repeating her words while he stalled for time. For some reason, this small sign of weakness made her feel more confident.

  “Yes, why do you think I went to him?”

  A slight flush stained his cheeks. “He’s your lover.” His voice was deeper and harsher than usual and she saw something flare in his eyes.

  “He was my lover.” She kept her eyes on his, taking one step closer. He inhaled, the intake of air causing his already huge chest to expand even more. “Do you find me attractive, Gormley?”

  His features hardened, his eyes becoming darker, but cold. “What is it that I can do for you, my lady?”

  His words were like a slap, making her see herself in his eyes.

  It was a revolting phrase, but it was the only one that fit: she was behaving like a bitch in heat. Again.

  Alice shook her head at the unattractive image and spun on her heel, desperate to get away.

  He caught her wrist and she gasped, glaring down to where his huge hand encircled her arm, his skin warm and rough. “What do you think you are doing?”

  He turned her easily, leading her back to the chair.

  “Sit.”

  A bonfire roared low in her belly at the soft command. They locked eyes, his glinting with amusement—and—by God, authority. How she wanted to reject him, but her body was already obeying.

  He nodded slightly when she’d complied, as if he’d never expected any other response.

  He dropped to his haunches, the action so sudden she flinched.

  “Shhh,” he murmured, resting his big hands lightly on her knees, the unsolicited touch sending more heat surging through her.

  She had to look down at him now, an odd shift in perception that left her feeling off balance. His hair was a bit long and flopped over his forehead, the wavy brown locks exhibiting interesting glints of red gold in the light of the tallow candle. He made soft circles on her knees with his thumbs, the action pulling her eyes back to his.

  “You come here tonight to continue what we began the other night in your carriage, didn’t you?” He asked the question in the same quiet, respectful tone he used to ask if she wanted him to fetch a hackney.

  Why did he not look subjugated in such a position? What kind of man could lower himself to a woman’s feet and look so . . . strong, so powerful?

  “Answer me,” he said.

  Every muscle in her body was taut with expectation and it was all she could do to manage an infinitesimal nod.

  “Lift your skirt.”

  She started at the raw order.

  “If you want to stay, you will do as I tell you.”

  A bolt of lightning could not have produced more of an effect in her body. If she wanted to stay? Why the arrogant, conceited, obnox—

  But her hands had begun lifting the hem of her gown, stopping when the hem of the dress reached her knees.

  “Higher,” he ordered.

  The muslin moved jerkily, slowly.

  His eyes dropped to her exposed garters and his hands slid around her knees. When he tried to spread her thighs, she clamped them tight.

  He raised his eyes to her face, his expression harsh and pitiless. The only sign of his desire for her were his swollen pupils.

  “My lady.”

  Alicia swallowed and forced her body to relax.

  He pulled her toward him, not stopping until her bottom reached the edge of the chair, and then he spread her legs wide, until her hips ached.

  Her body grew hot with a bizarre mixture of embarrassment and lust.

  He stared at her forever, his thin, hard lips curving into a smile as he took in her stocking-clad legs all the way up past her garters, his gaze halting at the bottom edge of her chemise, an insubstantial wisp of muslin that did nothing to conceal the dark triangle beneath.

  “Lovely,” he murmured, leaning forward, hot breath skimming the tops of her stockings.

  He lowered his hot mouth over her silk-clad thigh and bit her, sucking her flesh into his mouth and flexing his jaws, marking her.

  He growled and the sound vibrated up her leg, into her sex, in
to her core.

  He pulled away and stared at the red oval of flesh, smiling.

  “I want to look at you. Lift your chemise.”

  His arrogant, abrupt command sent a shock through her body but, again, her hands were in motion before her brain gave the order and they both dropped their eyes to watch as she exposed herself to him.

  “Ah,” he sighed, his gaze riveted to her spread sex and his hands moving toward her.

  “But—”

  He glanced up. “But?”

  She gestured to the table, which held the two candles he used to read. “The light.” She reached to snuff it.

  “No, leave it.”

  Her head turned sharply at his harsh tone.

  “I want to look at you, to watch your face and see your expression when I make you orgasm.”

  They both heard the gulping sound she made and he smiled slightly.

  “And I want you to see me. I want you to watch me lick, suck, and finger you.”

  The room seemed to sway around her.

  “Breathe, my lady.”

  Alicia exhaled noisily before filling her lungs again.

  “Do you like it when I use raw language, my lady? Does it make you throb here,” he dragged a finger over her swollen lips.

  Alicia could only stare: Who was this man? He looked like her servant—he even sounded a bit like him. But, otherwise—

  “Answer me.”

  She blinked rapidly, as if to clear the steam from her eyes. “Yes.” It was so soft she was amazed he could hear it.

  His eyes dropped to her chest. “Pull your bodice down beneath your breasts.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut as her core clenched or pulsed or convulsed or did something that made every muscle in her body thrum.

  “Open your eyes.”

  Her eyes flew open at the sharp command.

  His gaze was hungry and intense. “I said to pull your bodice beneath your breasts. The next time you fail to obey me, you can leave.”

  Her jaw dropped, but her shaking hands moved to her bodice, which was already so low it took very little to lift her breasts over. The stretched muslin held them high, their tips hard, rose-colored pebbles that tightened even more when exposed to the chill air—and his piercing gaze.

  His hooded eyes glittered in the candlelight. “You are very lovely.” The hungry look and subtle praise fed a yearning in her, a desire to please him, to have him say more.