Percival nearly smiled. Charity looked like she wanted to cast up her accounts even saying the word. His aunt’s hatred of and malice toward the pretty blonde who had married her third son, and the woman’s offspring, had always been tangible due to the marked difference in station. But with the deaths of Charity’s two eldest sons, it reached boiling point. If the two women ever came face to face in the street, Lady Edwards would be left in pieces on the ground. Which could well be the most amusing thing he might ever see.
“Unlike my own wife, Lady Westleigh knows how to do her duty and is heavy with child. Lord Westleigh is extremely protective of her, and their footmen appear to be more hired brawn than servants. As for Lord—”
“Do not dare,” Charity hissed, “disrespect me by giving that dirt-poor, landless nobody a title that is not his. He is Mr. Edwards. Nothing more. Now proceed.”
“Pardon me, I’m sure. Anyway, this is where the tale becomes interesting. George Edwards has gone away on holiday. Well, that is the story his mother has put about, anyway. But the truth of the matter is, a man nearly fitting his description—”
“What do you mean, nearly?”
“Do stop interrupting me, aunt. It is tiresome and unbecoming. And to answer your question, he was in disguise. Brown wig. Spectacles. Padded belly.”
“Because he had something to do with Sir Malcolm’s disappearance?”
“Ha! I don’t believe so, although I could not imagine him being at all unhappy about it. Actually it is because he has…a job.”
“A what?” said Charity incredulously, clearly unable to fathom something the lower and middle classes did every day of the week.
“A job. My spies say tutoring the Donovan mining and trade heiress on how to be a lady so she might win herself the prize of a high-ranking peer. Can you imagine?”
She grimaced, her fingertips stroking her elaborate diamond necklace as if to reassure herself against the stain of trade and lowborn people. “I’d rather not. It does inspire sympathy in me when aristocrats find themselves in such dire straits that they must wed far, far below themselves to secure their land and holdings. Thank heavens we do not have that issue. All the Mannering dukes have been wise in matters of money.”
“Even Howard?”
“Even him,” she replied, her lip curling. “Some of his repairs and modifications to the carriages and other equipment with moving parts have been…tolerable enough. And I understand our lawyers and clerics think highly of his land cropping and shipping investment plans. Ugh. Can we not speak of him a moment more? I do not wish it. Tell me more of Mr. Edwards’ job. Where do these Donovan people live?”
“Until quite recently, in Staffordshire, no doubt coated in soot from their mining interests. But now the family has moved to a satisfactory estate in Gloucestershire.”
“I suppose it does have its charms as a county. But I wonder if, now that we know where Mr. Edwards is hiding himself, someone could perhaps pay him a visit.”
“What kind of visit exactly?”
Charity smiled, so coldly he almost shivered himself. “The serious kind.”
He bowed. “As a matter of fact, I already have a trusted acquaintance in the vicinity who owes me a great favor. So I’m sure that can be arranged.”
The sooner, the better.
~ * ~
“Aren’t you a beauty.”
Huge brown eyes gazed back at him, and George almost laughed at the mare’s smug expression of “I know” as he ran an admiring hand over her silken black mane.
It was early, not yet eight in the morning, and he’d decided to take up his employer’s kind offer of full access to their stables and go for a brisk ride across the estate. Usually finding a mount for his massive frame was difficult, but the Donovans owned at least ten examples of prime thoroughbred horseflesh, stallions and mares. He’d been so eager to get out and feel the freedom of bracing wind on his face, he’d even dismissed the stable boy and attended to bridle and saddle duties himself.
Anything to clear his head over Louisa bloody Donovan.
Christ. The battle over her ugly gowns had been odd enough, but when she had leaped at him and knocked him to the floor…
Trouble.
She had only been trying to get off him, he knew that, but all his damned cock registered was a beautiful woman astride and rubbing herself against him. And when she’d slipped back down and her breasts had been shoved right under his chin…for one long, mindless moment the only thought lodged in his head was getting her naked and under him. Feeling her tight, wet heat clamped around his cock like a glove. Hearing her moans and cries of pleasure in his ear as he feasted on her nipples and stroked her clitoris and made her come again and again.
Louisa Donovan. The she-wolf herself. His employer’s daughter. Destined to be the virgin bride of a marquess or duke, and the only road he had to financial salvation.
What the hell was wrong with him? She was a spoilt spinster with a temper, not a potential lover. Definitely not a potential lover. On his day off this coming Sunday, he needed to get himself to the nearest tavern and find a willing wench to ease the ache in his cock. Then he could deal with this situation with a far clearer mind. In the meantime, a cross-country gallop would have to do.
Rolling his shoulders in irritation, he scratched the mare between her ears, chuckling reluctantly when she whinnied and shamelessly nudged and butted his hand for more. “You like that, eh, girl? About ready for a long, hard ride? I know I am.”
“Such pretty words, Mr. Howard. Do they often work for you?”
George froze at Louisa’s drawl behind him. “You’re up far too early. Proper ladies don’t rise until at least mid-morning.”
“I felt like some air. Despite the temperature, we have clear skies for once. Besides, it is well documented that I am not a proper lady. Isn’t that why you were hired?”
“Allegedly,” he muttered, reaching across to lift the mare’s bridle from a shelf at the side of the stall.
“Well then. Be a dear and escort me on a jaunt. We can be back before anyone notices I’m gone.”
George turned on his heel. “You must be jok—”
The words caught in his throat and he nearly choked at the sight in front of him. Rather than the pretty blue riding habit he’s seen yesterday, Louisa wore a white linen shirt, a short-cropped, leaf-green spencer fastened with one button…and breeches.
Too-tight breeches, which clung to her lush hips and rounded backside like some sort of damned body paint. All thoughts of the mare disappeared as he marched out of the stall and glared at Louisa.
She smiled, her lips pure smirk. “Something the matter, Mr. Howard?”
“What the bloody hell are those?” he said, gesturing wildly at her legs.
“I would have thought it quite obvious. Breeches. Although to be fair, those ridiculous spectacles you wear have probably impaired your vision significantly.”
“Why are you wearing breeches?” he near-roared.
“Dear me. Again, an obvious question. Because some rotten gentleman, who shall remain nameless, emptied my wardrobe. It is hard to clothe oneself when all garments are either gone or only fit for the rag bag.”
“You have the blue riding habit. That was fine. More than fine.”
Louisa shrugged. “I found a dirt smudge and had to send it for sponging. Such a shame.”
“I’m not taking you riding looking like that. No tutor in the world would.”
“Oh, yes you are.”
“No I bloody well am not,” he snapped, folding his arms as she sauntered forward, twirling a riding crop.
“Yes, you are. You will take me riding, or I’ll take that brown wig and false belly padding of yours, and use it in a gunpowder experiment.”
She bloody would, too.
“Don’t even think about it.”
Louisa halted several feet from him, put her hands on her hips, and bobbed a curtsy. “Boom.”
Fury overcame him. Without stop
ping to think about his actions, he grabbed a wooden bucket full of icy cold water from a nearby bench and drenched her with the contents.
She shrieked, leaping backward, losing her footing and tumbling onto the straw-covered floor of the stables. And that was when he became shockingly, lustfully aware of another critical point about her ensemble: She wasn’t wearing stays. Only a thin, unadorned white chemise.
Which, along with her white linen shirt, had turned nearly transparent.
Christ. He should look away. Turn right around. Shuck his jacket off and cover her with it. Take the mare from the stall and head for the hills.
But he couldn’t stop staring as raw, blatant hunger heated his blood.
Louisa looked like a damned erotic painting. Stray red curls framed her face, her lips were plump and her thighs spread. The cold water had hardened her nipples to peaks and they jutted proudly against her clinging shirt; not a shade of pale pink, but a darker shadow against the linen, like raspberry or brown, and surprisingly big.
His mouth watered to suck them. To flick the tips with his tongue and scrape them with his teeth until they were so engorged and sensitive, she screamed. Then he would peel those damned tight breeches off and bury his face between her thighs and make her scream a whole lot more.
“George,” she said in a husky, very un-Louisa like voice, and his cock strained against his trousers. “Help m-me up.”
Hell. Her lips were turning blue, and the last thing in the world he wanted was for her to become ill. Not to mention Mrs. Donovan had made it very clear that Louisa was to be fit and ready for presenting to that damned bastard Kildaire in less than a fortnight.
Kneeling beside her, he swiftly unbuttoned his greatcoat and took it off to drape around her narrow shoulders. She had started to shiver violently, and he rubbed his hands along her arms, trying to warm her up. In the end he pulled her onto his lap, and she burrowed against him and rested her cheek against his chest.
“St-stupid cr-cretin,” said Louisa. “Who t-tips cold water on a p-person in w-winter?”
“Be quiet,” he said gruffly, wrapping one arm around her while he rubbed his other hand against her back. The moisture from her shirt soaked into his, but George ignored the unpleasant clamminess and held her tighter.
Until she whimpered. “George.”
“Don’t be foolish. You need to get warm.”
Louisa didn’t reply, just took several audible inhalations. Alarmed, he sat back and studied her face. Her lips weren’t blue anymore, but full and pink, like she’d been biting them. And her cheeks were flushed, her eyes slightly glazed.
As though she was excited. Very excited.
“Kiss me,” she breathed.
Giving in to overwhelming temptation, George leaned in until his lips were just a few inches away from hers. “Ask me nicely.”
One of her hands wound about his neck, attempting to tug him closer. “Stop dilly-dallying, and kiss me right this minute.”
“Or what?” he challenged, but his thumb was trailing down the side of her neck and across her collarbone. Fuck, her skin was soft. Silken.
“Damn you,” she said, and suddenly pressed her lips against his.
It was a thoroughly inexpert kiss. And yet blood surged through his veins so fast he felt lightheaded, and his cock hardened to stone. With a muffled exclamation he took control and kissed her fiercely, reveling in the sweetness of her lips and flicking his tongue against them until she opened her mouth and let him inside. All he could taste was Louisa. All he could feel was the erotic cold/hot contrast of her shirt and mouth, the hard points of her nipples rubbing against his chest.
Fuck. He thought he’d been in trouble before.
But this was a whole new class.
~ * ~
She wanted.
Every part of her felt like bubbling beaker, about to explode. After the shock of the icy cold water, now her body was hot and aching and George’s powerful kisses had sent her senses into a frenzy.
She’d taken a chance kissing him first; both embarrassed at her lack of experience and scared that he would reject and walk away from her as he’d done before. But he hadn’t. And now her lips burned and tingled, and the hot dart of his tongue as it tangled with her own made her want to scream, because she needed so much more. Her nipples were unbearably hard, rubbing almost painfully against her wet shirt, and between her legs, an unfamiliar pulse throbbed.
Louisa moaned, shifting restlessly on his lap.
He halted, moving his mouth so he was kissing her neck. “What?”
“I…more,” she said, the ability to explain or elaborate impossible.
“I can’t,” said George, and the angry regret in his voice strengthened her resolve.
“Yes you can. A little bit.”
“Damn it, I can’t. You know I can’t. And you bloody well know why.”
Louisa shook her head, utterly unwilling to accept the pronouncement. Her mother, Lord Kildaire and every other damned peer in Britain, propriety and ladylike behavior, could all go bathe in the Thames. It was beyond ridiculous that women were kept so in the dark about sexual matters, it was nearly 1815, for heaven’s sake. And she currently sat perched on the lap of England’s most notorious rake. The least he could do in return for her silence on his true identity was teach her a few things.
Taking a deep breath, she took his hand and placed it on her left breast.
For several agonizing seconds it just rested there, large and warm and still. Then George groaned and his fingers began to flex, gently cupping and massaging the small mound while his thumb circled her swollen nipple.
Louisa arched her back. “More.”
“No.”
“More,” she growled impatiently, forcing her breast against his palm when he persisted in tormenting the taut peak with a delicate, featherlike touch rather than the firm stroking she needed so desperately.
“What is the matter?” he bit out. “Are your nipples so hard it hurts? Do you think you might say anything, do anything, to have my non-aristocratic hands on them? My non-aristocratic mouth?”
Louisa stilled at his tone, so angry and hoarse and bitter, and turned her head to meet his gaze. George’s jade eyes were glittering, his face strained, and a light film of perspiration coated his temples.
Understanding hit her like a bolt of lightning, and her excitement reached fever pitch.
He wanted her. George Edwards, king of the ton, onetime friend, long-time foe, new employee of her parents, and the man who had starred in so many of her wickedest bedchamber fantasies, wanted her.
Very, very slowly and deliberately, she moved one hand from around his neck and trailed it down his chest. “You are so firm here. So muscled.”
“Don’t play with fire, Louisa. You’re the bloody chemist. You know what happens.”
Ignoring his warning completely, she skipped over the belly padding with a moue of distaste until her fingers rested on his thigh. “Hmmm. Just as firm and muscled here. You must do a great deal of exercise.”
“Damned right. And not much in the way of boxing, riding a horse or fencing. You know what I do? I fuck women. All the time. Dozens and dozens of them. Blondes. Brunettes. Ebony-haired. Tall. With large breasts, big and soft like a perfect pillow. That is what I like…fuck. Christ.”
On another occasion the words would have been brutal daggers to the heart. But her fingertips had just found a fascinating bulge. A huge, rock-hard bulge, straining against the fastening of his trousers, and there were no bloody damned tall, big-breasted blondes or brunettes or ebony-haired women in sight.
His manhood. The grand love pole. Member. Such silly words. But she didn’t particularly like the Latin penis either. Now, what had she read it called in the most explicit of her penny novels, the one she kept safely hidden under her mattress? Ah, yes. Cock.
“What is the matter, George?” she murmured, titling her hand and rubbing the back of her knuckles against him. “Is your…cock so hard it hurts?
Do you think you might say anything, do anything, to have my non-aristocratic hands on it? My non-aristocratic mouth?”
His breath hissed between his teeth, and that heavy, pulsing column of flesh jerked against her. “Don’t bloody say that.”
“Say what?” she managed, when what she wanted to do was shift herself on his lap and learn what it felt like to rub her burning, aching center against a real erection. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific. I am an acknowledged slow study after all.”
“Cock,” he snapped. “Unmarried virginal ladies do not say cock. Or bloody hell. Or damnation, for that matter.”
“They don’t? Well, hell. That is a damned bloody shame. Cock is such an interesting word. Skips off the tongue, does it not? Cock, cock, co…ahh.”
Intense pleasure-pain flashed through Louisa’s body, and her gaze jerked downward to see his thumb and forefinger clamped around her taut nipple. He’d pinched her right through the sodden linen shirt! Never had she thought for a moment that a man might do that, but the sensation was incredible. And arrowed straight to her core, as though her nipple and the hot, sensitive area between her legs were directly connected.
“Again,” she gasped.
George blinked. “You…liked that?”
“Was I not supposed to?” Louisa replied irritably, as her whole body throbbed, desperate for ease.
“No, damn it. You were supposed to shove me away then run for the hills.”
She rolled her shoulders and shuddered. The wet linen of her chemise and shirt kept scraping her nipples, and when he took the warmth of his hand away, the cold air was almost unbearable on the engorged tips. Absently, she lifted her hand and brushed her palm against her breast to ease the friction of the clinging fabric.
“Well, pardon me, I’m sure. Just because I’m a virgin doesn’t mean I’m a hothouse flower.”
George closed his eyes as if in terrible pain, then opened them and stared at her, his hands dropping away from her breasts. “You are one odd female.”
“I shall take that as a compliment,’ Louisa replied, wanting to howl in disappointment. She could practically see him retreating well away from her, even though she still sat on his lap, and his erection hadn’t subsided.
Rake to Riches (The London Lords Book 2) Page 9