Joss and The Countess (The Seducers Book 2)

by S. M. LaViolette

  Each word was like the flick of a whip.

  “But it sounds like you have something special in mind for me, my lady. Something exclusive. You want to buy me in my entirety—not just for a few hours a week. You’d like to own me, keep me in a house, dress me the way you like, have me ready, waiting, and hard to service you whenever you desire. Your private whore—just as I’ve been for you these past weeks.”

  She recoiled at the barely restrained violence in his eyes, but her body thrilled at what he described: Joss, hers—all hers. An explosion of desire sent hot sparks cascading through her body, a fire settling low in her belly and kindling into a conflagration.

  She stared up at him; he was like a wall, a sheer cliff of solid rock. She knew he was angry—only a fool wouldn’t see that—but he hadn’t left, he was still here. Perhaps this anger would pass. After all, they had shared something together.

  Surely he wouldn’t wish to let it all go.

  Surely he needed it just as badly as she did?

  “What are you thinking?” She bit her lip as soon as the last word slipped out of her mouth.

  He gave a rude bark of laughter and his eyebrows, his most mobile feature by far, shot up. He pulled the sash on his robe and shrugged it off his shoulders, standing naked before her. Erect.

  All the blood in her body rushed to her sex. He was so very magnificent, so very—

  He gestured to his hips. “That’s what I’m thinking. Just like the good whore I am, speaking of such things has made me hard. You’ve made me hard, and ready and eager to please.” He wrapped a big meaty fist around the base of his erection and thrust his hips. “I’m thinking about fucking you, my lady. Burying myself inside you, spreading you wide, filling your hot wet cunny, ramming myself to the hilt, until my jewels pound against your ass. Pumping you hard, making you scream, until—”

  “Enough!” Alicia lurched to her feet, sickened by the open loathing in his voice, on his face.

  She staggered for the door, her head buzzing and pounding and hot; only to be stopped by the sound of his low laughter. She spun around, her mouth open.

  He was standing with fisted hands on his narrow, taut hips, his abdomen flexing, the V of taut, ridged muscles even more defined as he laughed. His face was almost unrecognizable, his eyes squished into amused slits by his cheeks, which strained to contain his grin.

  Alicia sucked in a breath. “You. . . you . . .”

  He pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead with a violent thrust of one hand, the motion sending muscles rippling across his torso, his shoulders, his biceps, his—

  “Yes, me, my lady.” He dropped his hand and his smile with it. Fury, and something else, something unidentifiable, burned in his eyes as he strode toward her. Alicia tried to move away, but her feet tripped her up and the chair stopped her egress.

  He grabbed her upper arms, his grip like iron manacles He drew her closer and closer, bending low, his gaze unbreakable.

  “You want to know what I’m thinking? Do you really even believe that I can think? Or feel?” A muscle jumped in his jaw and his pupils narrowed to specks. “You treat me like a whore and then become offended when I speak like one? You think because you pay me a wage that I am willing to sell you every last part of me. As if I’m some sort of toy to be taken out of a box, played with at your leisure and then tossed aside when you tire of me?” The hateful words came out of him like a cauldron that was boiling over.

  Her mind reeled at what he was saying. But part of her body throbbed, ached, and burned for him.

  He leaned down so their noses were pressing hard against each other. “You dig into my past—pry into my life—and then—when you find out what I once did to earn my crust—you banish me from your daughter’s presence as though I am a carrier of the plague.”

  “No!” She winced away at his words. It was the truth, but only part of it. “You don’t understand—”

  His face twisted until he looked like a stranger. “Of course I don’t understand,” he sneered, his eyes blazed into hers. “How could I possibly understand the motivations of an elevated being such as yourself?”

  He flung her arms away from him as if she’d burnt him—or as if he could not trust himself to exert control any longer, his chest rising and falling like a massive bellows. “You bloody toffs—you’re all the same, every one of you. Treating your servants like possessions, no different than a dog or a carriage or your bloody chamber pot.”

  He turned his back, leaving Alicia battered, like the victim of a cyclone or avalanche. She could only stare.

  The room was so quiet. There was no ticking of a clock or crackling of a fire. Her gaze flickered to the tiny grate and she realized it was cold and dark.

  She heard the sound of his cupboard door closing and looked up. He’d pulled on his scarred groom leathers and tossed a worn canvas bag onto his bed. Beside the bag was a small pile of garments and a few books.

  “What are you doing?” Her voice sounded reedy, weak, unlike her.

  “Leaving.” He didn’t turn. Instead, he sat on the bed and pulled on a pair of heavy woolen stockings.

  Her mind spun, looking for something to say—to defend herself from his accusations. But what could she say? His words were true. She had pried into his life, into his past. She had come here to use him for her needs. She had offered to pay him to touch her—to be with her.

  But she’d not made her offer for any reason he believed: not because she thought him dirty or unworthy or less than her.

  She’d made the offer because she didn’t want to live without him—wasn’t sure she could live without him.

  Alicia closed her eyes. She’d treated him the same way every man had treated her: like a thing. An object to be used for her pleasure, employing him like a tool to get what she wanted, disregarding his needs, his very humanity.

  She opened her eyes at the sound of heavy footsteps. The small pile of garments on the bed was gone, now in his bag. He’d pulled on a roughly woven coat and a brown hat she’d never seen before. He slung his bag over one huge shoulder and was walking toward the door. He was going.

  Alicia opened her mouth, but she’d already offered all she had to give. She had nothing else for him. Nothing.

  So, she stood by silently, and watched him go.

  Chapter Twenty

  The thing that bothered Joss the most was the smell.

  ​It had been years since he’d worked in his Da’s shop and he’d forgotten lots of things, or put them out of his mind, more likely. But the smell of blood, offal, and death all flooded back to him in an instant.

  ​Still, Joss was grateful for the backbreaking and relentless schedule after too many days and weeks of waiting and wanting.

  “To be truthful,” Michael had said when Joss showed up with his bag in his hand, “You could not have come home at a better time. Not that I’m glad you were sacked, of course.”

  It had been easier to tell his family that he’d gotten the sack for talking back to his immediate superior, Mr. Carling.

  If they’d have known Carling they would have scoffed at his excuse. Carling was more likely to thrash a disrespectful employee than he was to report such a thing to his employer. But the excuse served well-enough, and all of them except Belle believed it. His sister knew him too well, she knew something was wrong, even though Joss had told her nothing.

  “Since Davy Jenkins broke his foot—the clumsy bastard—I’ve been runnin’ about like a duck with two heads.” Michael had scratched at his neck, the leather apron he wore every day having chaffed the skin permanently raw. “I like the lad, so I told him I’d hold his job. He says he’ll be back in three weeks at most, so I could use your help.”

  So, here Joss was, back where he’d begun his life.

  Of course things were different than they’d been all those years ago. Da was so feeble he no longer got out of bed and it was Belle who kept the house on top of the shop in order rather than their wiry, perpetua
lly angry Nana.

  But the hard work, the long hours, and the stench? Those were all the same.

  Joss had settled in—too easily in some ways—spending his evenings at home, enjoying the time with his sister, and his father when the old man was aware enough to know where he was, if not who he was.

  Belle had always been his favorite sibling. It might have been the fact their Ma left when she was still just a baby and Nana—although she’d looked after Belle’s physical needs like food, clothing, and shelter—had had no time for the sensitive girl’s loneliness. Nor for her passion for books, a weakness in their grandmother’s eyes.

  But Joss had understood his sister’s sense of loss. His life had changed drastically after their mother left. His Nana said he’d had enough book learning for a lifetime; that at fifteen his father had been working full-time in the shop and so should Joss.

  So he’d stopped going to school and had put away the hopes her mother had lodged in his head and in his soul—expectations that he might one day become a teacher—and he’d gone to work.

  “Joss?”

  Joss looked up from his noontime meal, which he’d not touched, to find his sister smiling down at him. His face naturally creased into an answering smile. “Sorry, Belle, what was that?”

  “You’d gone somewhere far away, hadn’t you?” Her eyes dropped to the table. “And you’ve not eaten a thing.”

  He opened his mouth to promise her that he would, but she waved him down. “I didn’t come to scold you. I came to tell you that you’ve got a visitor—it’s Hannah Baker.” Her forehead furrowed. “But she calls herself Melissa Griffin now. My, but she looks as fine as a fivepence.”

  Joss scowled. Melissa—here. Just what he needed.

  Belle saw his look and hesitated. “Should I send her away?”

  “No, you can show her in.”

  Belle looked around the humble but spotlessly clean room, her expression doubtful. “In here? Or should I show her into the parlor?”

  “She isn’t too fine for our kitchen.”

  Belle nodded uncertainly. She’d been a little girl the last time she’d seen Melissa, no doubt her appearance was an enormous surprise.

  She left and soon the door to the kitchen opened. Joss stood.

  Mel stopped in the open doorway and cut him a saucy look, one hand on her hip. “You look so pleased to see me, darling.”

  Joss stared: for all her bravado, she was gaunt and hardly looked like herself. He opened his mouth to ask her what was wrong and then glanced over her shoulder, to where Belle hovered.

  “Would you like some fresh tea, Joss?”

  He looked at Mel and raised his eyebrows. “Would you like some, Mrs. Griffin?”

  She smirked at his dry tone but gave Belle a kind smile. “No, thank you Miss Gormley.”

  “I’m fine with my ale,” Joss said.

  She nodded and quietly closed the door.

  Joss pulled out the chair across the table from his. “Good God, Mel, you’re skin and bone. It’s been what—three weeks since I last saw you? What happened?”

  She laughed. “What a silver-tongued devil you’ve become, Joss. I think you’re supposed to tell me how fine I look rather than pointing out how hagged I am.”

  She was certainly dressed fine; the cut and quality of her garments were as tasteful and expensive as any aristocrat’s.

  Today she wore a carriage dress of dark ruby wool trimmed with gray. Her hat was high-crowned and bore a cluster of feathers that reminded Joss of a pheasant’s tail. The garment must have been new because it fit her rail-thin body like a second skin. She’d lost weight but she was still beautiful. Her green eyes were huge in her heart-shaped face and she looked as fragile as spun glass. But Joss knew she was as tough as hammered steel for all that she appeared so delicate. Although she didn’t resemble Alicia in appearance, the two women shared certain characteristics: intelligence, confidence, and humor, for a start. But he thought what they really shared was a history of pain. Whatever it was that Alicia had hidden from him, it was something bad.

  “I’m interrupting your meal,” she said, laying a blood-red beaded reticule on the table and pulling off matching lambskin gloves.

  Joss pushed away fruitless thoughts of Alicia while shoving his plate to the side. He sat back, crossing his arms. “Have you seen a doctor?”

  “Not so hasty. I’ll tell you everything. In good time.”

  “How did you find out I was here?”

  “Not from you.”

  He barked a sharp laugh.

  “Were you ever going to come and tell me what happened?”

  “I’ve been busy here. Between the shop and my father and—”

  She snorted and then reached across and broke a corner off the sandwich on his plate, popping it in her mouth and chewing. “Mmm, this is good.”

  “I thought you’d just had your tea?”

  She grinned and took another piece.

  “Who told you I was back here?”

  She chewed and rolled her eyes in bliss. “Mmmm.”

  “Mel . . .”

  “Oh, hush. You’re so theatrical, Joss. You really should be treading the boards. I found out you were here when I sent a message to you at Lady Selwood’s and the messenger returned with the information you’d quit.”

  Joss felt a prickling of surprise. So, Alicia had not said she’d sacked him. She’d looked so bloody guilty when he’d left that he’d been fairly sure she would not try to wreck his chances for future employment, no matter how cruelly he’d behaved.

  ​“You sent a message? Why? What’s happened?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” she said, smoothly dodging his question.

  He shrugged. “Your messenger was wrong—I was discharged for being insubordinate.”

  “Surly Joss was insubordinate?” She made an amused clucking sound, not waiting for a response. “That’s not difficult to imagine. So, here you are.” She made an encompassing gesture with one hand while the other picked away at his sandwich. Joss slid the plate across the table to her and she smiled.

  “Here, you look as though you’ve been starving yourself. Although you sound better than the last time I saw you.”

  “I was ill, but I’m better now.”

  He grunted, not wanting her to see how much that information relieved his fears.

  Judging by her grin he failed miserably. “It’s no use trying to hide it—I can see you still care about me, Joss. Although I certainly wouldn’t have known it by the frequency of your visits these past weeks. But if the mountain won’t come to Mohammed then . . .”

  “What a clever girl you are.”

  She laughed at his sour tone. The sandwich, which his sister had made to accommodate a man of his dimensions, looked preposterous in her slender hands but she opened her mouth wide and took a bite, chewing with gusto.

  “I haven’t tasted anything so delicious in ages,” she said after Joss slid his mug of ale across the table and she’d washed down a few mouthfuls.

  “You employ one of the most expensive French chefs in London,” he reminded her, his mouth watering just thinking of the meals he’d had from the kitchen of The White House.

  “Yes, but it has been a long, long time since I’ve had good, honest, rib-sticking English fare.”

  “You poor darling.”

  She ignored his taunting. “How long are you going to stay here?”

  “My brother’s employee should return in two days and he’ll no longer need me.”

  “And what are your plans then?”

  He didn’t tell her that he didn’t have any. Without a reference from Lady Selwood, which he absolutely refused to go beg for, his options when it came to employment—at least as a groom—were slim indeed. He shrugged, not wanting to tell her that he’d already put feelers out to the man who used to set up his fights. The response had been less than enthusiastic.

  “Come work for me.”

  “Mel—”


  She raised a hand. “Just listen to me—will you? Please?”

  He heaved an exaggerated sigh. She would not stop until she spoke her piece.

  She pushed aside the plate and folded her arms on the table, leaning toward him like a woman who meant business.

  “I asked your sister how your father was and she said he is quite ill. That the doctor calls on him once, sometimes twice, a week now.”

  “What of it?”

  “I remember what you told me of your plans for you and Belle when your father passed and your elder brother took possession of all this.”

  Joss cursed himself for sharing anything with this woman. He loved Mel, but she’d been born to manipulate.

  It was true he’d made plans with Belle. His little sister was a sweet, intelligent, loving, wonderful woman. But her pockmarked face was the only thing men seemed to see. She’d never had a suitor and odds were she never would.

  When Belle no longer took care of their father, there would be nothing left for her in this house. It had been their plan to pool his earnings with the little she’d get from their father and buy a small place where they could live and operate a bookstore. It wasn’t a grand dream, but it would be a quiet, pleasant life.

  The money he’d saved thus far was not enough to achieve that dream. Not nearly enough. They might be able to afford the lease on a building, but without a reserve of money they would not have a cushion for the lean times.

  “Joss?”

  He frowned at her. “You know how things ended with us before, Mel. Why are you asking me to do this?”

  “You’re a man now, Joss—less romantic. You were just a boy then and far too young for what I expected of you. I know that now.” She smiled. “You were so ready to be in love. In love with love.”

  Joss’s face heated at her words but he knew she spoke the truth. He wondered what she would say if he told her about Lady Selwood. How much of a grown man would she think him then?

  He met his friend’s beautiful green eyes. Mel was one of the loveliest women he’d ever seen. For a time, he’d believed she was the most beautiful, both inside and out. But there was a hard core of her that remained untouchable, at least to him.