Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman

by Lorraine Heath

  “Perhaps we’ll give it a go in a few more days. It’s my second-favorite pleasure.” His eyes dared her to ask what the first was. But she knew. Based on the flush suddenly warming her skin, she suspected he knew she knew.

  “Gambling is next,” he continued. “Then drink. What is your favorite pleasure?”

  “As you didn’t tell me your favorite, but merely your second, third, and forth—” She saw in his eyes that she shouldn’t have taunted him as she had, so she answered quickly, “Reading, attending concerts, and strawberries.”

  He gave her a decidedly wicked grin. “I know your first pleasure.”

  Kissing you, being held by you, inhaling your spicy scent, touching your—

  “John,” he said.

  “Yes, of course. You’re quite right. How very clever you are.” She scrubbed harder, hoping to cover her blush. John was a pleasure, but so much more that he didn’t signify in this conversation. She would never rank him because he would always be above everything.

  His dark chuckle reverberated around her. “Truly, Mercy, you prefer strawberries to a kiss? How many others have kissed you?”

  Her body grew so hot that she was surprised the water didn’t begin to boil. “Only you.”

  The words came out on a whisper of shame. Why was he doing this? Tormenting her? To distract her? He was doing that easily enough by just sitting there. He didn’t need to make her think about his mouth moving over hers.

  “Obviously, I did not give you my best, for if I had, surely it would have fallen between reading and concerts.”

  “You mock me.”

  “And you lie.”

  “No, I’ve never lied to you.” She held his gaze with a steadfastness that ensured he would know she spoke the truth. It was important to her that he understood that. She had never lied; she’d omitted information, and if he ever discovered it, it was imperative that she not be seen as deceiving him.

  He studied her solemnly, quietly. “Then I was wrong,” he said after a time. “I guessed incorrectly your favorite pleasure.”

  She neither confirmed nor denied, but concentrated on dragging the cloth over skin that had suddenly become unbearably sensitive under his perusal.

  When she was ready to get out, he grabbed the towel and held it up for her. “Set it down and leave,” she ordered.

  “Come along. I’m just going to wrap it around you.”

  His eyes held a challenge that she couldn’t not accept. She rose, the water sluicing off her body. She stepped out of the tub and stood with her back to him, waiting, waiting … and then the towel folded around her, covering her from neck to knee. Before she could move away or protest, he turned her around to face him. She clutched the opening of the towel, keeping it closed. His hands were just above hers, knotted around the towel, keeping it secure as well. Then he tugged gently, brought her nearer, until she almost fell against him, lost in the blue of his gaze.

  “Why does panic show in your eyes whenever I’m studying you?” he asked. “What is it that you don’t want me to see? What is it that you think I’ll see? Your freckles, perhaps? You have eighteen of them, you know.”

  “I don’t. Not that many. Half a dozen at the most.”

  “I suspect I look more closely at you than you look at yourself in the mirror. There are eighteen.”

  With that he released her and strode from the room. She sank onto the edge of the tub, wondering what other surprises the night might bring.

  Chapter 9

  Bloody damned hell. Why was he tormenting himself?

  It wasn’t her eyes, or her smile, or her spirit. It was her body. Lithe and supple with legs that stretched all the way up to her neck. He’d wanted them wrapped tightly around his waist. He wanted them now.

  He’d lied. He’d had a damned good view. He’d never known such sweet torture.

  It had taken every ounce of strength he possessed to sit there without revealing that he was aching with need, that his own body was rebelling. He’d wanted to snatch her out of that blasted water—water that was teasing her skin the way he wanted to—and carry her to the bed. If she hadn’t just experienced a horrific nightmare, he damned well might have.

  He rubbed the scar along the side of his face. He was just vain enough to wonder if she was repulsed by it, if she’d be nauseated by the others that marred his body. He’d been aware enough during his own recent ordeal to know that she’d touched them, wiped a damp cloth over them. At one point she’d leaned forward and kissed some of them. His manhood had reacted as best it could under the circumstances, with a swift stirring. If not for the laudanum, he’d have been as hard as stone. But it had kept him subdued. Maybe that was the reason she’d poured so much down his throat.

  She was wary of him, too wary. Women usually were eager to have him make love to them again, soon and often. Had he suffered injuries that made him clumsy in bed? Had she not experienced the full pleasure he offered all women?

  This hole of memories was a curse. He had no idea how he might have treated her, what they might have done. And he certainly wasn’t going to ask her.

  Stepping out of the changing room, she approached, watching him warily like a virgin on her wedding night. It made no sense. She knew what he was fully capable of delivering.

  “Why does being with me frighten you?” he asked.

  She darted a quick glance to the bed, then angled her chin defiantly. “It doesn’t.”

  “Then come sit over here”—he slid his hand over the cushion beside him—“and have some more brandy.”

  “It’s frightfully late.”

  “It usually is when one awakens with a nightmare.” From the moment he’d met her, he’d failed to question the heavy circles beneath her eyes, the weariness that shadowed her face. He’d simply assumed she was one of those women who always appeared tired, as though life were a burden too heavy to bear. But what he now knew of her character—she was not one to be weighted down. He suspected she would frolic through green fields with the first hint of spring. “When was the last time you slept for any substantial length of time?”

  “I sleep in snatches. John. John does not yet sleep through the night.”

  He gave her a pointed look. “Jeanette could relieve you of that duty.”

  “But he’s my son. He needs me.”

  “Once in a while, you need to sleep through the night.”

  “I can’t. If it’s anything other than a quick nap”—she shook her head forcefully—“they come. All those I could not save.”

  The reminder of what had initially brought him to her bedchamber curbed his desire. He patted the cushion. “Join me. I won’t ravish you.”

  “I never thought you would.”

  He wasn’t quite certain what to make of her tone. Was it disappointment or determination? And why would she ever think she was safe with him? Women weren’t. Oh, he never forced them, but he was damned skilled at persuading them. Why did she not think he would take advantage?

  The sofa dipped slightly beneath her weight. She brought her feet up, the gown creating a tent over her legs. She wrapped her arms around them, rested her chin on her knees, and stared into the fire. She reminded him of a petulant child. But the gown was thin and shadows teased him. No child there.

  With one long swallow to refortify himself, he emptied the brandy from his snifter. After refilling it, he offered it to her since she’d left hers in the bathing room. He supposed he could have retrieved it, but he didn’t want to upset the balance that had settled in between them.

  She sipped gingerly, her focus on the fire in the hearth so great that he wondered if she even remembered he was in the room.

  “Nineteen,” she said mulishly, her mouth drawn.

  “Pardon?”

  “There are nineteen freckles. You must have missed one.”

  “Then I shall have to recount them.”

  “Don’t bother,” she stated flatly. “Take my word for it.”

  He didn’t answer. He
would count them again. Before the night was over if he had his way.

  For a heartbeat, she looked almost disappointed that he didn’t argue further. He could barely contain the relief that went through him. She might pretend otherwise, but she wanted him near, perhaps as much as he wanted to be close enough to enjoy her fragrance.

  She grabbed her stub of a braid, dragged her hand down it, and reached empty air far too quickly. He wondered if she’d forgotten that her hair was shorter. “How long was it?” he asked.

  Twisting her head, she pressed her cheek to her knees and stared at him.

  “Your hair,” he said to her unasked question.

  “Past my waist.”

  Reaching out cautiously, the way he might approach a skittish filly, he unraveled her braid, holding her gaze the entire time, challenging her not to stop him. She didn’t. She sat frozen. He wasn’t even certain she breathed. He combed his fingers through the short strands that curled around her chin, curtained the length of her neck, toyed at her shoulders.

  “Was it difficult to cut it?”

  “Not terribly. The scissors I used were quite sharp.”

  He flashed a smile, before narrowing his eyes at her caustic statement. He suspected she could be a good deal of fun when her burdens were light. He wanted to be with her when they were, wanted to be around when her hair once again cascaded down her back.

  “I meant—and I know you know what I meant—if it was hard to give up what many consider a woman’s crowning glory.”

  “It was hardly glorious with vermin crawling through it.” She feathered her fingers over it. “It’s only been a few months since I last cut it. I don’t know if I’ll ever bother to have it as long as it once was. It’s much easier to care for short.”

  “I rather fancy it, but I would also like to see it long.” He arched a brow. “So I can compare. As we’ve already discovered, you don’t study yourself with as much effort as I study you.”

  She released a short burst of laughter, straightened, and finished off the brandy. He wrapped his fingers around the bowl of the snifter to take it from her. She stilled his actions by laying her hand over his. Then she trailed her fingers over a jagged scar that ran across two knuckles and nearly touched a third.

  “You said you didn’t know how you came to have all your scars.” She lifted her whiskey gaze to his and his gut clenched. Had any woman ever looked at him with such unbridled yearning? Was it the brandy? Had it relaxed her enough that she was able to cast inhibitions and proper behavior aside? “I know how this one came to be.”

  “Do you?” He shouldn’t have been surprised by his strangled voice. Everything within him urged him to hold more than the damned snifter.

  “You acquired it the night you saved me.”

  “Saved you? From what?”

  She took the snifter from him, set it aside. She held his hand with one of hers and with the other trailed her fingers over the scar, as though reading a tale. “It was late. Dark. Only a sliver of a moon in the sky. I should have been in my room in the northwest tower, but sleep eluded me. Which was odd, as I was exhausted from my turn at scrubbing the floors. Miss N could not tolerate the filth. Neither could I. A man should have a clean place in which to die.”

  Tightening her hold on his hand, she shook her head quickly, as though her story had taken a turn she didn’t wish it to take, and she needed to get it out of her mind. She once again began dancing her fingers over his damaged skin. “It was dark, late. I was walking.”

  She was repeating herself and he suspected she was delaying getting to the meat of the story, perhaps even regretting that she’d ever begun it.

  “There were other buildings. Few people were about because of the lateness of the hour. I felt safe. The Cossacks were a danger, but they weren’t near us. I never thought I need fear those I’d come to help.”

  His entire body stiffened, his hand closed over hers. He shifted nearer and with his free hand, he cradled her cheek and spotted the freckle he’d missed before. It was ludicrous to notice something so trivial at a moment like this, but he recognized the distraction for what it was. He dreaded hearing the rest because he was fairly certain he knew where the story was going and it took everything within him to act disaffected, not to display the driving need he had to get up and smash something.

  She shivered, and her golden brown eyes took on a faraway, haunted look. “There were three men. One a big, brutish fellow. Another slightly shorter and reed thin. The other an even smaller chap. I don’t know why, but when they emerged from the shadows I immediately thought of a tale about three bears that my childhood nursemaid had told me.” He could feel the slightest of tremors in her hands, the one he held and the one that continued to stroke him. He wanted to beg her not to carry on with the story, but he sensed that she needed to unburden herself. So for her sake, he held his tongue. If she had borne the reality of it, he could bear the retelling. But he was haunted with the realization that if he’d not lost his memories, she’d not have to tell him. He would have known. He could have spared her this torment.

  “They were well into their cups,” she continued, her voice faint. “They grabbed me, dragged me between two buildings—”

  His healing thigh began to ache unbearably from the tension pouring into it.

  “I tried to dissuade them from their purpose but they were of a mind like so many others that a woman willing to tend to men, who didn’t shy away from bathing them and assisting them with their personal needs, was of low moral character. That she was a trollop.

  “I screamed and fought, all the while knowing there was no hope for it. I could not fend them off. I would be ruined.”

  His heart was hammering as though he stood in that alleyway with her. The hairs on the back of his neck rose.

  She lifted her gaze to his. “And then I heard the voice of my salvation. ‘See here, lads, that’s not the way to go about charming a lady into lifting her skirts.’

  “ ‘She arn’t no lady,’ the brute said.

  “ ‘You’ll feel a sight differently when it’s your blood spilling on the floor that she’s mopping. Leave her be.’

  “You swaggered toward us, so calm, so poised. I knew who you were, of course. I’d changed the bandages on your arm.” She touched it now, the place where the scars were so thick that he’d often wondered if he’d come close to losing it. Only through her did he know now that he had. “Wiped your brow. Brought you soup. You’d been discharged that afternoon. I thought you were on your way back to the regiment. But there you were, so strong, so cocky. They’d have none of it, though. It didn’t matter that you were their superior in rank. They were like animals. They mistook you for a gentleman playing at soldiering.” She turned her attention back to his scarred knuckles. She kissed them softly, and he shuddered with the stark need to find those men and beat them into bloody pulps. “You hit the brute who was holding me with such quickness that he had no time to react and with such force that I heard the sickening crack of his jawbone. He landed with a hard thud. He didn’t get up. The others ran off. You lifted me into your arms and carried me to a distant corner, crouched in the snow, and held me in your lap, soothing me while I wept.” Her eyes rose to meet and hold his. “You were with me until dawn.”

  Sometime during the telling of her tale, she’d shifted so her knees were no longer raised, but were resting between them on the cushion. She lowered his hand to her lap, but didn’t let go.

  He still cradled her cheek. He skimmed his thumb over the curve of it. “I take it that eventually I did more than hold you.”

  A deep red blush instantly flushed her face.

  “Do you feel I took advantage?”

  “No, like every other nurse, I fancied myself in love with you.”

  He’d always had a talent for making the women fall in love with him. He’d taken immense pride in it. Of a sudden, he was feeling rather nauseous. He wanted to believe that he’d have been gallant enough to withhold his lust if th
e situation warranted. But his needs when it came to women had always been powerful.

  “I’m sorry I don’t remember that night of gallantry. I’m afraid I can’t share your conviction that I didn’t take advantage.”

  “The time I spent with you was the most wondrous of my life. You erased the memories of their vileness. I’m not sure, without your comfort, if I would have ever been able to stand to have another man touch me. Everything that happened there was so intense. It was as though each moment encompassed a lifetime. In the months that followed, when despair struck me over the deplorable conditions under which we were striving to save lives, those memories of the time I was with you saw me through, gave me hope—to know there was something better.”

  “Then why are you so wary of me?”

  “Because you don’t remember me, and it is as though we are beginning anew. And so much has transpired in my life that I’m not certain I’m the same girl that I was. Or that you’re the same man.”

  All he knew was that he wasn’t the same man who’d shared tea with Claire. He’d changed in many ways but not in all ways. Of that he was certain.

  He worked his hand free of her hold, slipped his arms beneath her—

  “What are you doing?”

  “You trusted me that night. In spite of the fact that what happened with those brutes should have made it difficult for you to trust any man. You trusted me. We were together until dawn. Trust me again, Mercy. Tonight. I will hold the nightmares at bay. I will give you a sleep so deep—”

  “No, I will not risk getting with child. It is so unfair—”

  “That night, did I use my mouth?”

  “You kissed me, yes.”

  “Did I kiss you”—he dipped his gaze to her lap, then held her eyes steadily. “Did I kiss you everywhere?”

  Her lips slightly parted, she barely shook her head.

  “Then let me give you this gift. It is all that will relieve the guilt and worry that perhaps I did take advantage and you were either too innocent or too upset to know it.”

  “It’s wrong,” she whispered.

  “It’s not wrong to receive pleasure. I can give it to you without removing my clothes, without unfastening a single button.”