Before she had a moment to marvel at this miracle, he reverted to form, blatantly eyeing Lady Fairfax’s bountiful assets. Contemptible lecher.
Then his gaze cut in Bliss’s direction, his brow lifting in a question mark. He raised his glass in a goading salute, and promptly drained the remainder of his drink.
Eight
True nobility is exempt from fear:
More can I bear than you dare execute.
William Shakespeare
Bliss could barely contain her sigh of relief when the evening drew to a close. Court chuckled as she eagerly accepted his proffered arm and escorted her from the room. They were barely out of earshot before he began ribbing her about her verbal castigation of Lord Lynford.
“He had it coming,” she said, her sense of conviction augmented by the amount of wine she had consumed. “He wouldn’t understand the idea of equality if the Lord descended from heaven and trumpeted it in his ear.”
Court chuckled. “You are a delight, cousin, and I’m very glad you came here with me.”
“You were in need of a respectable token to keep Lady Rebecca’s fire-breathing mother at bay.” Bliss faltered a step, her legs unsteady beneath her. “Where were they tonight?”
A slight frown creased his brow. “Rebecca’s mother does not like the people her sister chooses to associate with.”
Bliss couldn’t fault the woman for that, having now met the people in question. “Why is she here, then?”
“She is living off her sister’s largesse,” he explained. “Her husband gambled away all of their money before dying ignobly at Leighton Field, where he had been forced into a duel for cheating.”
“I see.” Another sad example of a woman’s complete dependence on a man, which forced her to sit by helplessly as his ineptitude left her at the mercy of others.
They stopped in front of Bliss’s bedroom door, and not a moment too soon. She needed to lie down. “I’ll see you in the morning.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, weaving slightly.
Court halted her with a hand on her forearm. “Are you all right?” Concern lit his eyes.
“Of course.”
He didn’t look convinced. “You drank quite a bit tonight, which is unlike you. I know Lynford is a cretin, but I’ve seen you hold your own against men far worse than him.”
Lynford was the least of her worries. It was Caine and his brooding presence at dinner, watching her in that detached way of his, that kept the wineglass rising to her lips. He unnerved her effortlessly, which made Bliss angry with herself.
He was ruthless and determined. She could read her downfall in his eyes, and felt powerless to prevent it. He was like a rushing river, sweeping away everything in his path, and she could not get out of the way in time. If foolish stubbornness weren’t keeping her from leaving, she would have departed the first time he touched her.
“Bliss?”
Bliss realized she was standing there mute. “I’m sorry, Court. My mind is preoccupied this evening.”
“I know.” He paused, studying her face before asking far too astutely, “Has something happened between you and Caine Ballinger?”
“Happened?” If Court had noticed the tension between her and Caine, who else might have?
“Something tells me you didn’t heed my advice to stay away from him.”
He was right, of course. He had warned her, but she had done as she pleased.
“Has he said anything to you? Done anything untoward?”
Would kissing her breasts be considered untoward, even though she had nearly begged him to do so?
“You’re worrying for nothing,” she finally replied. “The man is harmless.” An exaggeration of epic proportions; Caine was as harmless as a powder keg in a ring of fire. “I can handle him.” Another exaggeration, one she hated to admit even to herself.
Her cousin’s expression was skeptical, but he capitulated. “You will tell me if he tries anything, won’t you?”
“Of course. Now, I really need to get some sleep.”
He nodded. “Good night.”
“Good night.” Turning, Bliss entered her room and slumped against the closed door, waiting for her balance to return and wondering just how far she would fall before this week was over.
Something was afoot.
Unease filled Caine as he drained the remainder of his drink, watching Olivia sidle up next to St. Giles, whose leering gaze had followed Bliss as her cousin led her from the room.
Their heads bent close, the pair spoke in low tones, a sly smile curling Olivia’s lips as they separated. She gave St. Giles a suggestive wink before she left the room, her backside undulating in blatant invitation.
When St. Giles turned and found Caine watching him, he smirked, his expression one Caine had seen numerous times during their acquaintance and which always heralded trouble.
Caine slowly rose from his chair, the legs scraping ominously against the floor, his fists aching to rotate the bastard’s nose to the back of his head.
He refused to believe his fury had anything to do with St. Giles’s interest in Bliss—the way the swine had practically drooled over her shoulder all night, leaning close in that pretentious, confiding way of his so that he could get a glimpse down her bodice, or engaging her in conversation to the exclusion of everyone else, refilling her wineglass before it was half finished, or finding a way to make continual contact with her body—his hand brushing hers, his fingers on her forearm.
No, Caine’s irritation had nothing to do with Bliss. He simply loathed the buggering whoreson. To his immense dissatisfaction, St. Giles gave him no further provocation. Instead, he inclined his head in a facetious taunt and exited the room.
Caine followed a moment later.
Something told him that St. Giles was not going to his room or even Olivia’s. He had set his sights on Bliss, and Caine couldn’t allow anything to happen to her. She was his ticket to freedom, and he’d be damned if he’d let the bloody malfeasant ruin her before he had the chance to ruin her himself.
Once on the upper level, Caine stood in the shadows watching St. Giles, who also kept to the shadows, spying on Bliss and her cousin, who were talking in front of her bedroom door. Caine suspected he was waiting for Seaton to leave so he could sneak into Bliss’s bedroom, taking her unawares and then forcing himself on her.
Caine’s hands fisted at his sides, his brain calculating the most painful ways to castrate the little shit. The idea of incapacitating St. Giles by driving his head through the wall was also a pleasurable image.
The man denied Caine the opportunity, however, as he cautiously eased his way down the hall, coming almost parallel to where Caine stood and then slipping into Olivia’s bedroom. Not a single sound of protest came from within.
Instead of returning to his own room, Caine moved closer to Bliss and her cousin, catching the last part of their conversation. So the lady thought him harmless, did she? A grave mistake in judgment—and one that would prove useful to his plans.
When she finally entered her bedroom, Caine ducked inside one of the hidden passageways, disappearing from sight just as her cousin passed where Caine had been standing.
Caine’s steps were swift and sure as he made his way down the darkened tunnel to the hollow wall, where small holes had been bored through the panel to give the viewer access to the room’s occupants.
He looked through, wanting only to make sure Bliss bolted her door. The interlude with Olivia might not be enough to quell St. Giles’s lust, and Bliss was just drunk enough to be unable to fend the man off.
Caine found her leaning back against the door, her eyes closed, her body so still that she looked asleep standing up. A solitary oil lamp glowed on the table beside her, casting her silhouette against the wall and bathing her skin in a honeyed hue.
She swayed lightly and opened her eyes, blinking as if to clear the fog before them. She shook her head and rubbed her temples. Obviously the alcohol had affected her more than he tho
ught. She’d had several drinks, and the brandy he had given her was well-aged and potent.
With an unsteady gait, she pushed away from the door, haphazardly divesting herself of one slipper, then the other. She moved to stand in front of the mirror, surveying herself.
Caine wondered if she saw what he saw: the full breasts and tiny waist, the silky skin and delicate features, the curtain of thick, mahogany hair that tumbled free, riveting his gaze as she ran her fingers through its long length.
Her hands then slipped to the hidden clasps cleverly concealed in the front of her gown, revealing herself bit by bit until she stood before the mirror garbed in nothing more than a demure, lace-trimmed shift.
Damn, but she confused him. Sometimes she seemed like two women. One, a lady of grace and poise, who didn’t know the meaning of backing down and who fought for women’s rights with a strength and self-confidence he had never before encountered in a female. The other woman was a bit uncertain, slightly vulnerable, and innocent in a way that aroused every protective instinct he possessed.
She stood for a long moment regarding her reflection in the mirror, and he remained like a voyeur, unable to retreat, to save himself. She had ensorcelled him.
Breathing became difficult as he watched her small hands with their long, tapering fingers smooth across her stomach before stunning him by sliding up to cup her breasts, her forefingers skimming over the pointed tips that thrust against the material, her body shivering in response.
His hands fisted against the hard, cold wall, a groan welling up inside his throat as a surge of heat blasted him from the inside out.
As if shamed by her actions, she abruptly turned from the mirror and sat down on the settee, raising the hem of her chemise to the middle of her thighs so that she could roll down her stockings. She paused midway, pressing a hand to her head and weaving a bit.
Leaning back, she closed her eyes, her face pale enough to concern him as her hand slipped down to the cushion where it lay palm up, fingers still.
She had passed out.
Caine remained rooted to the spot, telling himself that the only reason he had not yet left was because her door was still unlocked. He had no choice but to bolt it. She wouldn’t remember come the morning if she had done it herself or not. Tomorrow he would find a way to make sure she kept it locked, but tonight he was stuck with the duty.
He pushed at the panel, which gave way with only a slight displacement of air, and entered her room. He moved soundlessly across the floor toward the door, but came to a stop when she stirred in her sleep, a strap on her chemise sliding off her shoulder, causing the material over her left breast to droop. The light from the oil lamp shimmered over the thin lawn, revealing the high swell of her breasts and the faint outline of her nipples.
She lay there like temptation; ripe for the plucking, primed for seduction. He could take her now, own her body tonight, begin her ruination.
Instead he bent down and blew out the wick on the lamp, cloaking the room in darkness but for the slim beam of moonlight shining between the drapes, the ray slanting over her face and rippling down her body like a runnel of white gold, tormenting him with the places it touched.
He forgot about the door as he came to stand before her. A length of hair draped her shoulder, hugging the curve of her breast. He picked up the silky strands and absently fanned them through his fingers.
He still couldn’t reconcile the fact that no man had claimed her body. Why? What was she waiting for? True love didn’t exist, if that was what she was hoping to find. That emotion was only a sop for romantic hearts and fools. And he didn’t take her as either.
Unwittingly, she had given him the ammunition he needed to use against her. He had discovered her weakness, the weakness all women possessed: the lure of unconditional love. The solitary overriding goal of suckering some poor sod into poetic declarations of unending devotion and heroic acts of gallantry and glorified beds of roses. And fidelity. Always fidelity.
It was a communal flaw, an inbred female need to own a man’s heart fully, to be his one and only. And now that Caine recognized what he’d been overlooking, he had gained the upper hand. To win back his life, he would take whatever advantage he was given. He had no other choice.
He let go of her hair, but her pale, smooth cheek became another enticement, beckoning him. He could not resist. He trailed a finger along her jaw, down her throat, along the tender curve of her collarbone, stopping where the chaste white ribbon held her bodice together.
His hand dropped away, his fingers curling into his palm. Lock the door and go, you bloody fool. What the hell had come over him tonight? Too much liquor. Not enough liquor. Weariness, self-disgust, apathy.
He stared down at Bliss, waiting for the anger to steal over him, for the hatred to come, but only a dull ache settled in the bottom of his gut.
Why deny himself? Why not look at her, touch her, do whatever the hell he pleased? He lived by no moral code. He was not a gentleman, and no one would expect him to be.
He knelt down, his hands settling on either side of her thighs, and yet he did not touch her. Instead he studied the embroidered pattern on the garters holding up her silky stockings, which smoothed over legs that were taut, the muscles lightly defined.
He had never really looked at a garter before; he’d just blindly removed them with impatient haste. Bliss’s garters had cherry red rosebuds and dark green vines. Very feminine. Surprisingly erotic.
He trailed a finger over one, memorizing the pattern before sliding to the soft skin exposed above her stocking. The shift had ridden higher, only a wisp of material covering the feminine delta between her thighs. His hand ached to slip beneath the lacy edge and find her heat.
He pulled back, hooking a finger under the garter and slowly easing it down her leg, the filmy stocking following suit.
Caine held the silky garment in his hand. It felt as insubstantial as light, and was still warm from her skin. He closed his eyes and breathed in that arousing scent of flowers and innocence, a dark hunger stirring to life inside him.
He didn’t stop to think why he tucked it in his pocket. He simply moved on to the other garter and stocking, until her legs lay bare before him.
He wondered what the hell he was doing, even as he pressed his palms lightly to her thighs, her skin silkier than the stockings and far more tantalizing.
His thumbs pushed against the hem of her chemise, raising it by damning degrees, until his hands began to shake. An effect of the alcohol, he told himself, and yet he could not go any further.
He caught a glimpse of something on her right inner thigh. He gently nudged her legs apart with one hand and reached for the curtain with the other, allowing a sliver of moonlight to wash over them, illuminating what he had not been able to make out.
A small, perfectly round beauty mark.
Dangerously close to the dark apex that enticed him.
Caine sucked in a deep breath, teetering on the border between sinner and saint, before forcing his hands from her thighs and easing away from her. He remained on his haunches for long moments, trying to understand what madness was stealing over him. He felt hot and cold, his gut tight, his throat dry.
He had to get out.
He stood, ready to go. But for some reason, he reached down and lifted Bliss into his arms, turning toward the bed and laying her down. He wasn’t sure what he intended to do with her, or to her, until he pulled the coverlet over her, deciding to do nothing. Revenge would be far sweeter with her willing and wanton beneath him.
The slight click of the doorknob brought Caine to attention, his body stiffening as his gaze jerked over his shoulder, the barest creak of a floorboard alerting him to an intruder. He melded into the shadows as the door slowly opened. A faint light from the hallway spilled into the room, revealing the person’s face.
St. Giles.
Caine knew the lecherous maggot hadn’t given up. He had marked his territory the minute he set eyes on Bliss, and no
w he intended to follow through.
The door closed with a faint snap, and the bolt Caine had come to lock slid home. He could make out St. Giles’s dark form as he came to stand beside the bed. He wore black trousers and a black and burgundy dressing gown, his intentions clear.
He stared down at Bliss, a faint, sadistic smile on his face as he trailed his knuckles along the curve of her throat. “You are a morsel,” he murmured, hooking a finger around the strap of her shift and easing it down. “Now let’s see those luscious tits.”
Caine lunged out of the corner, his fist impacting with St. Giles’s jaw with a resounding crack of bone against bone, sending the son of a bitch spinning to the ground unconscious, the thick Aubusson carpet muffling the sound, a thin line of blood trickling from St. Giles’s lip.
Caine glanced over his shoulder at the creak of the mattress, thinking to see Bliss awake and ready to take the fire poker to his groin. But she had only rolled to her side.
None too gently, Caine heaved St. Giles over his shoulder, exiting Bliss’s room and heading away from the man’s suite, situated two doors down from Bliss—which Caine now knew had been intentional.
Stopping at the last door on the left, he raised his booted foot and kicked the door open, startling the occupant, who was primping in front of her vanity table.
Olivia whirled around at the sound of his entrance. “My God!” she exclaimed. “Have you gone mad?”
Caine unceremoniously dumped St. Giles at her feet. A large knot was forming on the man’s jaw, which would be thoroughly black and blue come morning.
“What have you done to him?” she demanded, staring wide-eyed at St. Giles’s prone form. “Oh, Lord, you haven’t killed him, have you?”
“No. But I should have.” Caine’s gaze skewered her when she raised her eyes to his, and she noted the volatility simmering inside him. “He was in Bliss’s bedroom. But you know all about that, don’t you?”
Nervousness replaced the stunned look in her eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The Pleasure Seekers Page 9