by Cheryl Holt
"I can be naughty, though." "Can you?"
"Would you like me to show you what I mean?" "Oh, yes."
As she stepped back to allow him entrance, she tamped down a triumphant grin. There wasn't a man alive who could resist her, and Charles Prescott was no exception. He'd just needed a little prodding.
After a few tumbles in her bed, wedding bells would chime. She could practically hear herself being addressed as Countess of Kettering, and at the notion she was quivering with glee.
"Would you like a brandy?" she asked.
"No, thank you. I'll be too busy." "I was hoping you'd say that." "Why fool around? When I see something I want, I like to seize it immediately." "So do I."
He reached out and caressed her breast, and her nipples leapt to attention, which surprised her. Usually, she loathed carnal contact and couldn't warm to male advances. Maybe with Charles, she would ascertain what had so many women tittering behind their fans. She still didn't know. As far as she was concerned, sex was a lot of sweating and grinding that held no appeal whatsoever.
Would Charles Prescott ignite the spark that had been missing?
She led him into her bedchamber, then turned to face him, and she preened, not doubting for a second that she looked fabulous.
He smiled. "Very nice, Lavinia. Very nice, indeed."
"For you, Charles. All for you."
"I just love a generous woman."
He tugged at the straps of her negligee, yanking them down so that the bodice drooped to expose her bosom. He inspected her, his gaze keen and enthused, then he snuggled her to him, and he dipped down to suck on her nipple. The move excited her in a way she'd never been before, and she cradled him closer, urging him to feast.
He taunted and played until her knees were weak, so she eased onto the bed, and drew him down with her. They tumbled together in a swirl of arms and legs, and he paused to trace his thumb across her lips.
"You have the most fascinating mouth."
"Yes, I do," she agreed.
"I wonder if you have any good uses for it."
"Oh, yes, darling. I know a very interesting one that I'm positive you'll enjoy."
She smirked. Horatio had been a rutting bull, who'd forced her to learn many disgusting deeds, which was now a benefit as she seduced various lovers to her schemes. She could do any ghastly thing without revealing her level of revulsion. When she performed fellatio, men were putty in her hands—poor, malleable Robert being the prime example.
Charles assessed her in a curious manner, waiting for her to proceed. He reclined on the pillow, and for a moment, he appeared bored and cynical, as if her low behavior was what he'd been expecting all along.
Which couldn't be right, and she frowned. Apparently, he wasn't sufficiently titillated, and she had to try harder.
She scooted down his body until she was directly over his crotch, and she unbuttoned his trousers, baring him and pumping him with her fist. His cock was firm and rigid, ready to be pleasured, and giving no hint of his advanced age.
With great determination, she licked him from base to tip, over and over, the suspense building, until finally, she glided over the crown. He sighed with contentment, which spurred her on, and quickly, he was at the edge. He clutched at her neck, and he let go, his hot seed spewing into her throat, and she swallowed it down.
Feeling smug and satisfied, she nibbled up his torso. She was prepared for praise and gratitude, but to her horror, he was evaluating her blandly, and she was rattled by his lack of appreciation.
She scowled. "What is it?"
"I take it that your dear, departed husband didn't request such base conduct from you."
"Why ... what do you mean?" "I 'mean that I apologize." "For what?"
"You seem like such a worldly creature that I assumed your husband must have taught you to.. . well. . ." He was struggling to be kind. "I shouldn't have pushed you to do something for which you're so thoroughly untrained and unqualified."
"You . . . you ... didn't like it?"
"It was fine," he claimed, but his aversion was so evident that she was mortified.
"You didn't like it!" she repeated, growing angry. "Just say so. I'm not a child. I can bear the truth."
He shifted away and stood, stuffing his privates into his pants and arranging his clothes. "I'm a man. Of course, I liked it."
"Then what are you implying?"
"I merely think you need a bit of practice. That's all." As if she were a pet dog, he patted her on the head. "Perhaps while I'm here, we can work on your skill. I'm always happy to help others improve themselves."
He turned and left, and she flopped onto her back and glared up at the ceiling. She felt as if she'd auditioned to be his countess but had blown her chance. How could she persuade him to let her have another?
She had a vision, of thousands of England's most gorgeous women, lined up to kneel before him, to suck him dry, and she was certain they all knew how to do it better than she ever could.
It was clear that Horatio had failed to impart some facet of instruction that was desperately necessary, and her confidence was shattered. When she recalled how often Horatio had made her please him with her mouth, when she thought of the early years, as she'd hid from him, as she'd begged for a respite, and all that time, she'd been doing it wrong!
She'd never been more humiliated, and she couldn't imagine how she'd show her face around the house while Kettering remained in it.
Silence descended, and with his exit, the sensual ambiance vanished. She couldn't abide the smell or taste of him. Suddenly nauseous, she leapt off the mattress, grabbed for the chamber pot, and vomited for all she was worth.
Penelope peeked out her window to the verandah below, watching for the instant Lord Kettering stepped outside to eat breakfast on the terrace. When he did, the intrepid Mrs. Smythe was absent, so he was alone and fair game.
She sneaked down the rear stairs and into the garden, skirting the verandah, but aware that he could see her from his perch at the table. She ignored him and continued down the path toward the gazebo by the lake.
From the day he'd arrived, she'd sensed his heightened regard. He constantly and furtively observed her, but they hadn't been able to chat privately.
If she couldn't get him off by himself, how was she to permit the elderly oaf to seduce her?
She'd reached the trees, and she paused, glancing over at him with a look that couldn't be misconstrued; then she went on. Men had never been a mystery to her, and Kettering definitely wasn't. He'd appear shortly. She walked to the lake's edge and picked a flower, sniffing it while listening for footsteps. Very soon, she heard him approaching.
She whirled around, feigning surprise at seeing him, but to her amazement, he didn't join in the charade. He marched over to her, not pretending that they were doing anything but engaging in an illicit tryst.
"So, Penelope, you've managed to lure me away. It took you long enough."
His audacious beginning caught her off guard. She'd been positive that she'd be in charge of the encounter, and she hadn't planned on his seizing control. She'd assumed him a thick, slow buffoon who would be easy to coerce and finagle.
"I. .. I... haven't been trying to get you anywhere. How dare you follow me out here! My mother would have a fit if she knew."
"Yes, I'm sure she would. Shall we go speak to her together? We can tell her what a little trollop you are."
"Why ... you despicable ... insulting ..."
She couldn't guess at the words refined people flung at each other when they were quarreling. Instead, she huffed away, but he gripped her arm and pulled her to a halt.
"Let's not play games," he said. "I detest them."
"I don't know what you mean."
"I can read it in your eyes. You're thinking, 'Why settle for the son when I could have the father?'"
She yanked away. "You are so full of yourself."
"Am I?" His gaze blatantly wandered to her bosom. "You're so hungry to be
my countess. Are you presuming you're the only female who's ever contemplated such a conclusion?"
"As if I'd crave your stuffy old title! If I accepted it, I'd have to accept you, too!"
"Yes, you would." He assessed her, then gave a mocking bow. "My mistake, Miss Gray. I misinterpreted your interest. I hope you're very happy in your life with Viscount Romsey."
He started away, and she panicked, stunned that he hadn't fallen for her sly advance. How would she ever orchestrate another secret appointment with him?
Like an idiot, she called, "Wait!"
He glared at her, then strolled back. "I don't have the patience for your nonsense. What do you really want?"
"I. . . I... wouldn't be adverse to our being better acquainted."
He snorted. "You make it sound as if we're about to have tea." He leaned in, his body connecting with hers, his chest pressed to her breasts, his manly parts wedged to her thigh. "If you're serious, you'll have to entice me with something that's a tad more exciting."
She knew to what he referred, and she gulped with trepidation. "I understand."
"Do you?"
"Yes, my mother explained everything."
"How terribly modern of her."
"I'm not afraid to try it," she boldly claimed, but the tremor in her voice belied her words.
"Aren't you? I've been a widower for years, so I have girls proposition me all the time."
How humiliating! Her world was so small, her opportunities so limited, that she'd imagined she was the only one to have thought of it!
"You're lying," she accused.
"I'm not. They all wish I'd pick them, but I never would. Aren't you curious as to why?" "Yes."
"Because they're silly children, who don't appreciate a man's needs."
"I could give you whatever you require." "Could you?"
He cupped her breast, cradling it and clasping the nipple. Lavinia had often taunted her with horror stories of how she'd eventually be touched like this, so Penelope was aware of what could transpire, but she hadn't anticipated it from him. Not when she scarcely knew him. Not when they'd just sneaked off for their first rendezvous.
It was evident that he was much too mature and sophisticated for her, but she wasn't certain how to extricate herself from the degrading encounter without seeming even more of a juvenile.
"Bare your breasts to me, Penelope."
She blushed bright red. "What?"
"You heard me. Do it."
"I don't want to."
"But you can't suppose I'd consider you as a bridal candidate without knowing what I'm getting. I'm a lusty fellow, and I can't abide squeamish females. I have to learn if what's hidden beneath the gown is worth having." He gestured to her chest. "Let me see."
Pondering, delaying, she gnawed on her hp, not sure if this was the best course. She was desperate to scurry off to her room like the ninny he envisioned her to be, and she was disgusted with herself for being such a coward. She'd always viewed herself as so very brave.
An important aristocrat like Kettering would expect her to behave like an adult, and if she planned to captivate him, she had to give him something to want. He'd asked to see her breasts. Where was the harm?
"Well, Penelope," he chided, "what's it to be?"
She pulled on the front of her dress, exposing herself, her nipples tingling as the breeze brushed across her skin.
He stared and stared, then finally stated, "I like big teats. Yours are very small."
Her pert bosom was her most appealing feature—or so she'd believed—so she hadn't realized her figure was lacking. Why hadn't Lavinia told her? It wasn't like her mother to ignore such a hideous flaw.
She'd never been so mortified, and she mumbled, "I'm sorry."
"I'll get over it. I can get over almost anything if there's enough cash involved."
He bent down and put his mouth on her nipple. He sucked very hard, biting with his teeth as she struggled to escape.
"Stop it!" she commanded. "You're hurting me!"
"Am I?"
"Yes."
He halted and straightened. "Do you think I care?"
Tears flooded her eyes, her shame escalating. "I can see that you don't."
"You're so foolish."
"I'm not! I wanted to please you."
"You're too immature to please me. Can't you grasp that fact?"
"Give me another chance!"
"Another chance! You'll be lucky if I don't take a switch to you. Don't you know anything about men? I could rape you without consequence. Maybe I should talk with your mother."
"But you asked me to ... to ..."
"Why would I have you as my bride? You'll have to provide me with a reason why I should bother." "I'm rich."
"And whores are cheap. I pay them when I'm finished, and I don't have to fuss with them again. If I married you, I'd have to chat with you over the breakfast table every morning for the rest of my life. At the moment, it doesn't seem like much of a bargain."
"I'd do whatever you demanded," she boasted. "I'd never complain."
"Wouldn't you? In light of what I've already observed, I'm convinced you'd be a constant pain in my ass."
"I could satisfy you better than any harlot."
"Now that I doubt." He clutched her nipple, squeezing till she winced. "I'm sick of you. Cover yourself, then go to the house before someone sees us."
"Perhaps I want someone to see us."
"I'd rather throw myself off a cliff than be caught with you."
She glared, wishing she'd had the foresight to bring a pistol with her. If she had, she'd have shot him right through the middle of his black heart.
"I hate you!" she seethed.
"No, you don't. You yearn to be a countess too badly. You're like a dog at a bone. Next time I'm alone, you'll show up to pester me."
"I won't. I'm quite certain of it. I never intend to speak to you again."
"Fine by me."
She stormed away, having been positive that he'd arrived at Gray's Manor because he was sniffing after her fortune. Every man in the world loved her because of her money, yet he acted as if her wealth had no meaning, as if it conferred no special status.
She reached the rear door and rushed to her room. Then she paced for hours, as she plotted and stewed. She would get even. She couldn't predict how or when, but she would, and when she did, he'd never be the same.
Anne Smythe sat at the table on the verandah, munching a scone, but her appetite had fled. From a parlor window, she'd spied as Penelope Gray had flitted into the woods, as Charles had sauntered after her. The horrid girl had just stomped back, and Anne could only imagine what Charles had done to her. He hadn't reappeared yet, but he would, and Anne pushed her plate away and went inside as Jordan was coming out.
"Anne"—he halted and scrutinized her—"are you all right?"
She shook her head. She was such a fool! Such a stupid, stupid fool! She'd persuaded herself that this occasion would be different, that Charles had been telling her the truth and they would finally marry.
"He's here because of Penelope Gray's dowry," she admitted. "He's going to try to ruin her and force a marriage."
"Of course, he is," Jordan agreed, though gently. "How could you have presumed he planned to do otherwise?" "I'm so sorry."
"Why should you be sorry? You're not his mother." "But I let him travel to Gray's Manor. I could have dissuaded him, or convinced him to visit elsewhere, but he said that. .. well... oh, it doesn't matter now."
"Why stay with him, Anne? Leave him. Stop tormenting yourself."
"And where would I go? I've been with him for two decades. This life is all I have, all I know."
"When I'm wed and settled," Jordan proposed, "you'd be welcome to come live with me."
He'd offered before, and she was ashamed to be forty years old and to recognize that it was her only option. "I'm sure your new bride will be happy to have Kettering's mistress as a permanent guest."
"Perhaps not,
but we'll figure something out. I appreciate your loyalty to him. I'll always help you."
"I know." Out in the trees, she saw Charles strolling toward them, a confident grin on his face, and her rage surged. "You can't let him get away with this—for Miss Gray's sake as much as your own."
"I won't."
"How will you prevent it?"
"I'll talk to her mother. Don't worry."
"You should probably chat with her at once."
"I'll make it a point."
She continued on into the mansion, momentarily disoriented as she left the bright sunshine and entered the dim corridor. She dawdled, waiting for her vision to adjust, her temper to calm.
She'd been twenty years old and much too vulnerable when she'd cast her lot with Charles. Her fiancé had been killed in an accident, and her parents had both died within months of each other. She'd been on her own and frightened about the future.
In those days, Charles had been so much like Jordan, handsome and virile and so very masculine. He'd always possessed the heart of a charlatan, but in the beginning, she hadn't understood what he was like. She'd been bowled over, seduced by his promises, and she'd willingly allied herself with him. There'd been no coercion.
Because she'd loved him, she'd remained with him at twenty-five, at thirty. She'd been with him through several marriages, the other woman who hoped to eventually take center stage, but what was her excuse now when it was so obvious that her dreams would never come true?
As he chased after Penelope Gray, and prepared to humiliate Anne, once again, after swearing he wouldn't, why did she stay? What was the reason?
She had no idea.
Her world was collapsing, falling away brick by brick, and the notion made her feel wild and reckless.
She started down the hall, when she literally bumped into a man who'd been approaching from the other direction.
"Pardon me," he murmured as he steadied her.
He was a striking fellow, tall and dark, with brown hair and eyes. He was her own age, or a few years younger, and he was well built, his sturdy frame exhibiting a robust physique.
"The fault is mine," Anne insisted. "I apologize."
"Not necessary." He smiled. "I'm Robert Mason, Mrs. Gray's neighbor."