Joss and The Countess (The Seducers Book 2)

by S. M. LaViolette

  “My lady?”

  She opened her eyes to find Maude staring at her, her serious gray eyes flickering from her face to the letter. “What is it?”

  Alicia handed her the letter and began to pace.

  “What do you think he wants?” Maude asked.

  “God only knows.”

  “At least he hasn’t told you to bring Miss Lizzy back.”

  That’s exactly what Alicia had been thinking.

  “What will you do?”

  Alicia gave a choked laugh. “What can I do?”

  ∞∞∞

  Joss was disappointed he did not see her again before his day off. But she’d been spending a good deal of time with her daughter, and he could not begrudge her that.

  He headed over to his Da’s bright and early on New Year’s Eve. It was cold and clear and he walked, rather than waste money on a hackney.

  The last weeks had been like a dream. A wet, hot, wonderful dream.

  Joss realized he was grinning like an idiot because his teeth were cold. He cupped his hands around his mouth, breathing hot gouts of steam; the puffs of breath were white, fluffy clouds in the frigid morning air.

  He needed to stop re-living their time together or he would walk directly under the wheels of a mail coach.

  Instead, he thought back to Christmas dinner and the duchess and what—if anything—he should tell Melissa when he saw her later that night.

  Joss had tried not to think about the duchess, which should have been easy. After all, he’d not seen her for years, it wasn’t as if his memories were fresh.

  Even so, she took up a certain amount of space in his thoughts.

  She had aged well in the almost seven years since he’d last seen her. She must have been in her late fifties when he’d known her.

  Her striking dark hair with its streak of silver was the same, although with more silver strands among the black, and the lines were deeper around her eyes and mouth—of course that could have been because of the shock of the moment—but she was still a very attractive woman.

  Joss had always found older women more sexually arousing. His first lover, if you could call her that, since they’d only had sexual congress once—well, perhaps one and a half times was more accurate—had been Mrs. Lyons, the baker’s widow.

  Joss had been sixteen and she must have been somewhere around forty. He’d been helping out around the bakery, doing heavy lifting for her since her husband had been dead a few months and she had six daughters and no sons to help her. His father had felt bad for the woman and had offered up Joss’s back.

  Joss hadn’t minded, she was kind to him in her brusque way and did her best to stuff him with pastries and bread. She’d also done a fine job of getting into his breeches.

  He’d been carrying sacks of flour, the day a hot breezeless one that made a person forget London ever saw a snowflake.

  The shop was closed and she’d come into the storeroom. He could still remember it. She’d not said a word, just pushed him back on a pile of flour sacks, yanked open his breeches, pulled out his rod, and lifted her dress. He’d been hard the way a young boy was hard: constantly, quickly, for no reason, for any reason.

  He’d also been quick. Embarrassingly so.

  Mrs. Lyons had been kind; she’d not mocked him or laughed at him. Instead, she’d taken his hand and brought it under her skirt, grinding against it until she shuddered and cried out.

  By that point, Joss had been hard again and very interested in what she had beneath her skirt. She’d been of a forgiving nature and had used him again. Joss had redeemed himself that second time.

  He shook his head; he’d not thought of her in years. One of her daughters ran the bakery with her husband now. Mrs. Lyons had gone to live with some relative out in the country.

  Joss shoved his hands deeper into his pockets as he strode through early morning London. He’d walked today because he needed the cold and exercise to clear his muddled head. It was bloody freezing and he already wished he’d worn his gloves, but they were for work, and he made it a habit to only use work garments for work.

  He shivered and rubbed his hands together. His mind, yet again, drifting back to Christmas dinner. That whole evening had been one long experiment in confusion.

  Joss’s duties that night had been few once all the guests sat down to dinner. After the meal was over, most of them stayed to play games or do whatever it was the Duke of Beckingdon had warned his wife he didn’t want to do. As a result, the duke was the first to leave.

  Lady Selwood had come with him to the door, the two speaking in low, intimate voices.

  Joss had forced himself to ignore the rumbles of jealousy that had thrummed through his body as he’d wondered if the distinguished-looking older man had ever fucked his employer.

  Instead of beating an answer out of the man— as he’d wanted—Joss had been ready with the duke’s coat, hat, and carriage before anyone needed to ask for them.

  His Grace had seemed loath to go once he had the beautiful countess alone. Alone but for Joss, who counted no more than a hat rack or boot scraper.

  Beckingdon had laughed, flattered, flirted, and generally made an arse of himself while Joss ground his teeth and held his garments at the ready.

  Finally, the duke was hatted, gloved, and cloaked. He took Lady Selwood’s hand, promised to have Ellen invite her out to some nob house party at whatever godawful pile of bricks he called his country home, and kissed her hand. Repeatedly.

  By the time he left, it was all Joss could do not to kick him down the steps.

  Joss had been in the foyer for most of that night. Part of him wondered what the duchess was thinking. Part of him wondered if she would seek him out. Part of him wondered if he should leave now and start running, without stopping to pack.

  Just what would a duke do if he learned his wife had fucked a groom?

  He was a bloody duke; he could do whatever he wanted to an insignificant speck like Joss and nobody would lift a finger to stop him.

  As it turned out, the duchess left several hours later with a small group of people, not looking at him even once when he helped her into her cloak.

  Afterward, Joss had gone up to his freezing cold room and said a long, heartfelt prayer of thanks that the duchess had decided to spare him, to ignore him.

  Perhaps she’d even told herself she’d been mistaken. He could imagine her thoughts as the evening progressed and even imagine her conclusion: how likely was that other man—a whore—and Lady Selwood’s servant likely to be one and the same? No, it was an impossibility.

  Joss sighed, the warm air he expelled as thick as a summer cloud in the cold morning air.

  He’d been lucky this time. But what about the future? What if the next woman who recognized him was not so circumspect?

  Christ. What if the next time the woman was some close acquaintance of Alicia’s? Did women talk about such things? He knew they must or Melissa’s clientele would not continue to grow the way it did.

  He tried to imagine Alicia’s response to the information that she was bedding a whore and shuddered: he should have told her, but he was a bloody coward.

  Maybe Mel would have some idea as to what he should do. Not that his options were myriad. He could hardly call on a duchess and ask her to keep their past bed sport a secret.

  His mind wandered back to the last evening he’d spent with Alicia, his cock stirring just thinking about it.

  They’d seemed to cross some boundary—becoming not just bedmates, but lovers. They’d talked for hours. And their lovemaking had been more passionate and less inhibited than ever.

  She had not wanted to go back to sheaths after that first time and he couldn’t deny her, even though he knew it was foolish, no matter that she claimed to be barren.

  Of course, thinking about how she’d felt around his naked cock made him instantly hard.

  You’re such a pitiful, romantic idiot. It was Mel’s voice in his head. She’d told him the same thi
ng more than once before.

  Joss grimaced; Lord, Mel would carve him up into small pieces if he told her any of this. He laughed weakly at the thought; what a bloody mess.

  ∞∞∞

  “Ring for another bath.”

  Maude went to summon a fresh bath and returned with a fresh towel. Alicia stepped from the tub, her skin red and raw. It didn’t seem to matter how much she scrubbed; she could not feel clean.

  Maude had not spoken a word since Alicia returned from David’s house hours earlier. She had rung for baths and handed her fresh towels to dry herself between each of the three baths she had already had.

  It was after two in the morning. Alicia knew she was being an arrogant aristocrat and running her servants ragged, servants who needed sleep, but she could not help it. She wanted to scrub the skin from her body. She would like to burn it off, along with the entire horrifying evening.

  David had made her wait all the way through dinner, baiting her, teasing and toying with her, like a cat with a mouse that was barely moving.

  It was not until after, when they were in his study, that he’d divulged the true reason for the evening.

  “Good God, Alicia! How could you be so insensible to have hired a man who was a whore in an honest-to-God whorehouse—for women of all disgusting things.” He’d appeared genuinely revolted “And probably men, too.”

  Even now, hours later, the words rang in her ears.

  “Not only did you hire him, but as a servant for my young sister?” His face had been a mask of outrage. “You paid a man who sold himself for money to touch my sister.”

  Alicia had been just as horrified as David, albeit for different reasons.

  Joss had worked at The White House? And he still went there—for what? To do what?

  Alicia had struggled to absorb the shock, but David hadn’t been finished.

  His eyes had glinted with anticipation as he’d delivered the killing stroke. “It is bad enough he was even near Elizabeth. But then there are the other services you have used him for.”

  “What are you talking about?” she’d demanded weakly.

  “Let us not pretend we don’t both know what has been going on in that seedy little love nest in your mews.”

  The blood had drained from her head so fast she’d become dizzy. “How,” she whispered.

  He ignored her question. “You will discharge him. Do you understand me? If you do not get rid of him immediately I will find some reason to have him thrown into the deepest cell in Newgate. You know I have the authority—nobody would even question me.” Anger, lust, brutality, and a dozen other unsavory emotions flickered across his face.

  “H-how do you know this?” she asked again.

  He smirked. “Never you mind about that, darling.” He was on the big leather settee, his arm draped lazily along the back, his expression beginning to soften now that he’d obliterated all her defenses.

  Beamish had knocked on the library door. “Do you require anything further, my lord?”

  David had flicked a look at her. “Would you care for tea, my dear?”

  “No,” she croaked.

  “You may take yourself off to bed, Beamish. Lady Selwood and I are family, we do not stand on ceremony and will not need anyone.”

  Alicia had ignored the butler’s glance, which, coming from Beamish, was the equivalent of a full-blown gawk.

  She knew the servants had suspected something went on between her and David. But it had never occurred to her that they might put such an incorrect interpretation on it: namely, that she liked or encouraged his attentions.

  Beamish had left and David looked at her heated face, grinning.

  “I believe Beamish might be a randy old goat beneath that rather stiff façade. What do you think, Alicia?”

  “If I discharge him you will let her stay?” She’d despised the pleading, groveling note in her voice.

  His mouth curled up at the corners. “It would be a good way to begin convincing me that I have not made a dreadful mistake trusting you.” He placed his foot on the floor and shifted his hips, making sure she could see the arousal that strained against his skin-tight pantaloons. “Of course, there are more immediate—and pleasurable—things you could do to reassure me.”

  Bile had flooded her mouth, threatening to choke her.

  Afterward, she wished it had; she wished that she’d choked to death and died in his bloody library. She wished she’d done anything other than what she ended up doing.

  “My lady. My lady.”

  Alicia looked up from the nightmare in her mind to find Maude staring.

  “You must stop. Look,” she took the towel Alicia was using and showed it to her. There was blood. Alicia looked down at her arm. Yes, she had taken off the skin. Tiny pinpricks of blood grew as she stared.

  “Please. No more baths. Let me see to your poor face.”

  Ah, her face. Alicia had forgotten about that. It had been a long time since she’d needed Maude’s extensive skills with cosmetics.

  Maude’s gentle fingers skimmed over the swelling on her cheekbone and Alicia winced.

  “I’m sorry, my lady.”

  Alicia wasn’t. She wanted the pain. She deserved everything David had done to her tonight and more. She deserved to be punished for what she’d done.

  But, most of all, she deserved to be punished for what she was about to do.

  ∞∞∞

  Everything changed after New Year’s Day.

  One day, Joss was in heaven, the next, somewhere worse than hell. One day he was her lover; the next day he didn’t even exist for her.

  Not only were the days miserable, but the hours seemed to pass with unnatural slowness, as if to give him the opportunity to enjoy his misery to the fullest.

  Whether it was due to the bitter cold or her daughter’s presence, her ladyship had hardly gone out the past week, staying in and choosing to have friends over. The daily book discussions had continued, but without Joss.

  Whenever she required somebody to take messages or accompany her and her daughter, she’d used one of the footmen, making it patently clear she had no use for Joss.

  And her nighttime visits had ceased as abruptly as they’d begun.

  He didn’t just miss her, he missed Lady Elizabeth. He missed the girl more than he’d thought. Those discussions had been mentally stimulating and invigorating and he’d looked forward to them.

  He understood that things had to end, but why was Alicia behaving this way?

  Ha! Alicia. It was back to Lady Selwood for him. And probably not even that for long, either.

  Whatever was afoot, Joss expected to get the sack any moment. Getting sacked would have been far better than a slow and painful death by a thousand cuts.

  A death that began when he presented himself to Feehan the day after New Year’s Eve, dressed to carry Lady Elizabeth and discuss their current book.

  He’d found Feehan supervising two maids—one of whom was Annie, who’d made no secret of the fact that she was miffed he was sitting in the library and taking tea with the daughter of the house.

  “Just like one of the family, you are,” she’d mocked one evening in the servants’ hall. “Surprised you aren’t sittin’ upstairs with them for dinner.” Her words had earned a few muffled snickers up and down the table.

  “What’s that, you say?” Feehan demanded from the head of the table, too far away to hear her.

  “I said I do love mushy peas, Mr. Feehan.” Her cheeky smile earned even more laughter.

  Every day just brought more of the same abuse.

  “Ah, Gormley,” Feehan had said the morning after his day away. “You will report to Mr. Carling for the foreseeable future.”

  Annie snorted, not bothering to hide it.

  Feehan frowned at her. “I do hope you have not taken ill, Annie,” Feehan said before turning back to Joss and frowning.

  “Er, what was that, Gormley?”

  “Shall I report to Carling for the re
mainder of the day, sir?”

  “Miss Finch indicated you would not be needed the rest of this week. She will fetch you if that changes.”

  He’d felt rejected, but he’d believed she would explain everything when she came to him that night. But she didn’t come to him.

  Not that night, or the next, or the night after that.

  So, it seemed Joss was to be relegated to the stables.

  He reminded himself—often—that his official job title was that of groom. But the reminder did no good and he felt like a man who’d been cast from paradise.

  The first few days he was so bloody wound up it was a miracle he hadn’t accidentally been kicked half to death by her ladyship’s frisky new hack—an enormous gelding that had been delivered two days after the New Year.

  “Lord almighty, Gormley!” Carling had yelled when he found Joss standing only inches behind the skittish animal, staring blindly into space.

  Joss had apologized profusely, deeply ashamed at his behavior.

  “Alright, alright—that’s enough,” Carling had said, half-scowling, half-laughing. “Just keep yer mind off whoever she is while you’re here with me.” He’d gestured to the huge dappled gray horse. “You’d better take this brute out and exercise him. He’s too much for wee Byron to handle and I’ve got my hands full.” He’d scratched his curly gray head, his wrinkled face creased. “Lord knows what the devil she bought him for.” He’d shaken his head and muttered. “Americans!”

  That was the first time Joss had really looked at the big gray and understood who the horse was for.

  The realization had flooded him with hope as he’d recalled the pillow talk they’d had before his life had turned to shite. She’d bought a horse for him to hack, just because he’d said he missed it?

  That knowledge had kept him hoping for those first days. He’d ridden the magnificent horse every morning in the park, foolishly believing that she would join him.

  By the time Sunday came around, there’d been no sign or word from her.

  He’d been so distracted that he’d only stayed a few hours with his family on his half-day, cutting his visit short so he could go and see Mel—something that always cheered him up.