A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband)

by Campisi, Mary

  “Nailed him, did you?”

  “He couldn’t get a word out between all the moans and groans.”

  “Good boy.” The earl chuckled and moved closer. His voice grew serious. “Thank you, Alex.”

  “It was the least I could do.”

  “I’m sure Francie is grateful. Thank you for protecting her.”

  Protecting her? Visions of Francie’s soft, creamy thighs throbbed in his brain. He still heard her sweet moans of pleasure. Protecting her? Heat rose to his face and he was thankful for the darkness. “You’re welcome,” he muttered.

  “But it looks as though your days of service will soon be over,” Philip said, rubbing his chin.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve had ten would-be suitors approach me already.” He shook his head. “And one proposal.”

  “Proposal?” Alexander repeated, visions of red hair and whispered sighs flashing through his mind. He sucked in a breath of air. It was too damn hot all of a sudden. Yanking his cravat loose, he stared at the earl. “What proposal?”

  The older man seemed amused by Alexander’s reaction. “Absolutely entranced, the young man was.”

  “Who?”

  “Young Grosepeak.”

  Alexander snorted. “He’s no match for Francie. She’d have him tied in knots and stumbling all over himself.”

  “True,” Philip agreed. “He is a little green. Perhaps she needs someone more experienced. Hmmm,” he said, tapping his chin with his finger. “What do you think of Westhaven?”

  “He’s a little too experienced,” Alexander said. He didn’t want to tell Philip the ton placed bets on Westhaven’s prowess. It was said he could bed any woman within a week. And the odds were always in his favor. No, Westhaven wouldn’t do.

  “Kilander, then. I think he’s quite a handsome, polite young fellow. He and Francie would suit quite well.”

  Alexander shook his head. “They might. But what would Francie think about the mistress and three children he keeps?”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “There was another young man. The one who came to see you for advice on the market last year. Penton, I believe. He seemed quite attentive to Francie.”

  “I’m certain he was,” Alexander replied. “He’s also probably quite attentive to the fact that Francie is now a very wealthy woman.” He pulled out two cheroots, lit them, and offered one to Philip. “Penton was knee-deep in debt when he came to me. His father cut him off and he thought I might give him a loan.”

  “I see.” The earl took a long drag on his cheroot. “And did you?”

  “Absolutely not. I told him to give up his mistress and his gambling and then we’d talk about a loan.”

  “Scratch him.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” Alexander replied, blowing a puff of smoke in the air.

  “What about Rentworth?”

  “Did his mother come with him tonight?” Alexander asked. “As long as Francie doesn’t mind her tagging along, wiping his nose and telling him what to do, it should work out fine.”

  “What about you?”

  Alexander bit down on his cheroot. He coughed, then choked, spitting out loose bits of tobacco.

  “Alex? Are you all right?”

  “No.” He spit again. “I am not all right.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

  “What did I do?”

  Alexander pointed a finger at him. “Don’t try that innocent routine with me, Philip. I’ve known you for too many years.” He spit out more tobacco shreds. “Why, I’ll even wager you already knew what I just told you about Francie’s would-be suitors, and you wanted me to object to every one of them.”

  Philip cleared his throat and looked away. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t you?” It all made sense now. Philip wanted him to see how unfit these men were. He wanted Alexander to be repulsed. And then he wanted him to play the mighty protector and rescue Francie from the clutches of the would-be villains. Very clever. The only question left was Francie’s part in this little plan. Was she aware of it? Is that why she’d allowed him such liberties with her sweet body? Was she trying to trap him into marriage?

  “Alex?” The earl’s gruff voice interrupted his thoughts. “What are you talking about?”

  “Just tell me one thing, Philip,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Does Francie know you’ve been scheming? Is she part of all this?”

  “No!” He shook his head. “No,” he repeated on a softer note. “And I’m not scheming,” he added. “I was only trying to make you see the obvious.”

  “Which is?” Alexander asked, trying to control the anger in his voice.

  “You and Francie belong together.”

  The words hit Alexander with the same force as the blows he’d delivered to Crayton earlier. He pushed back the image of Francie’s tinkling laughter and sweet smile. He fought the vision of her pale breasts, full and ripe in his hands. No, he told himself. They did not belong together. They could not belong together.

  “You know my opinion of marriage, Philip,” he said, his words blunt and precise. “I’ve never pretended to want a wife.”

  “You’re not your father.”

  Alexander ignored him. “I am responsible for myself. Period. I enjoy my life. I have no title so there is no pressure to find a wife and produce an heir.”

  The earl scoffed. “That is not the only reason to marry.”

  “Oh?” Alexander lifted a brow. “Do tell, Philip. Why do people marry? I’ve often wondered.”

  “For companionship. For stability.” Philip cleared his throat. “To produce extensions of themselves through children.” His voice lowered. “And for love.”

  “That’s odd,” Alexander said, letting out a harsh laugh. “Love didn’t enter into most of the unions I’ve witnessed. Those couples married for quite different reasons.” He held out a hand and ticked off his fingers as he spoke. “Land, money, titles, heirs, security. Perhaps, love of those things, but certainly not of each other.”

  “Why are you so jaded? Can’t you just for a minute consider the possibility of marriage?”

  “No.”

  “Why?” Philip’s words were filled with sadness and a hint of disappointment.

  “I can’t.” Alexander shoved his hands in his pockets. Why did they have to have this conversation now? Why couldn’t Philip just accept his word and stop digging around, looking for answers that were only going to upset him? He sighed. Fine. If the old man wanted answers, he’d get them, but he wasn’t going to like what he heard. “I won’t take a wife because I don’t ever want to look in someone else’s eyes and see disillusionment or failure. And I won’t bring children into this world to be at the mercy of two individuals who may or may not show common decency toward one another or their children.”

  Silence filled the night, wrapped itself around them, as he waited for Philip’s response. When he spoke, his voice was soft, his words gentle. “You and Francie care for one another. She’s full of love. Let her shower you with it. Let her teach you how to love.”

  Alexander shook his head. “Love? You’re the only one who’s ever shown me love. I wouldn’t know how to love a woman. To care so much you think your life will end if you can’t see her smile, hear her voice, feel her touch? I’ve never loved a woman like that.” He drew in a deep breath. “Nor do I want to.”

  Philip swiped at his eyes. “Sometimes it happens whether you want it to or not. That’s what living is all about, Alex. Cherishing those moments when she does smile, when her voice is filled with laughter. When love shines in her eyes and her touch is for you alone.” He sniffed. “That makes it worth the risk.”

  “Not for me, it doesn’t,” Alexander said.

  “Those are only words and they won’t stop what’s in your heart. You’ll see, Alex. One day, you’ll see exactly what I mean.”

  ***


  Francie sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, staring at the door. It was half past two-o’clock in the morning and she still hadn’t heard Alexander’s footsteps traveling past her door on the way to his room. Where was he? Had he left with Lady Printon? Was he spending the night with her?

  A sinking feeling settled in her stomach like a ball of dough that refuses to rise. She tucked her toes under her batiste nightgown, battling visions of Alexander’s strong fingers moving over Lady Printon’s well-endowed body. Was he touching her the way he’d touched Francie tonight? Giving her the same pleasure? Heat shot through her like a fire gone wild as she recalled every detail of their encounter. His hands pressing her to him, his manhood moving against her, his mouth at her breasts. She shuddered. And his tongue...oh, yes, his tongue…exploring, plundering her most private parts, shattering her into a million fragments of pleasure and ecstasy. She trembled again and wrapped her arms around herself.

  Dear Lord, what happened out there this evening, in the blackness of night, against the rough bark of an old elm tree? And what would happen now? Her gaze darted to the crumpled gold and burgundy gown hanging in the corner, the jagged little snags and tears on the left side serving as a reminder of her narrow escape from Jared Crayton. She glanced at the bodice, which dipped low, even more so when it hung from a hanger with nothing to hold it up, and remembered Alexander pulling the fabric down, exposing her breasts, lowering his dark head.

  Francie squeezed her eyes shut but memories of the evening still invaded her brain.

  She heard a noise on the stairs and her eyes flew open. Alexander was coming. Francie stilled her ragged breathing and listened. Nothing but a quiet, insistent scratching on the door. She bounded off the cream counterpane and threw it open. Mr. Pib stared back at her, his wide gray eyes flecked with gold. He flicked his caramel tail in the air and walked past her, rubbing against her leg.

  “You little devil,” she whispered, closing the door behind him. “How did you get in here? You’re supposed to be in the barn.”

  The cat jumped on the bed, turned around three times, and curled himself into a tight ball.

  “If Alexander finds out about this, he’ll string you up by your tail.” She crawled onto the bed and rubbed Mr. Pib behind the ears. “But lucky for you, I believe he’s not home tonight.”

  Saying the words out loud, even if only to her cat, made Francie miserable. He’d gone to his mistress. She’d tormented herself with those thoughts for the last three hours. Perhaps it was time to find out if they were true.

  Before she could reconsider her actions, Francie grabbed her robe and headed for the door. If he were still at Drakemoor, he’d be in his study. Not with his mistress. Her heart skipped three beats as she hurried down the winding staircase, her bare feet padding a muted staccato. She reached the bottom of the stairs and slowed, turning toward Alexander’s study.

  What if she found him in there? What would she say? I want to understand what happened tonight? Why did you pretend to ignore me at the ball and yet you knew my every move? Or perhaps, a confession of her own would be in order. My heart broke every time I saw you and Lady Printon in each other’s arms. I want you to smile at me the way you smiled at her.

  I think I’m falling in love with you.

  She gasped. No. She pushed the thought away. Loving a man like Alexander Bishop would bring nothing but heartache. Nothing at all, she reminded herself as she turned the knob of his study and peeked inside.

  George barked twice, his golden eyes glowing in the semi-darkness. He lay in the middle of the Aubusson rug, his tan coat blending into it. Next to him was a long scrap of white cloth. When he saw the intruder was only Francie, his tail thumped three times and he plopped his head between his paws.

  “What is it, boy?” Alexander’s voice came to her from across the room. He sounded strange, as though he’d just woken up and was still groggy. “Nothing? Good boy.” She heard a clunk. “Good...boy.”

  She slipped through the door and closed it behind her. George’s ears perked up at the click, but he settled again, his golden eyes following her.

  “What a mess, George,” Alexander said. Did she detect a slight slur in his words? “What a godddd...damned mess.”

  Francie inched closer. Alexander lay sprawled in his chair, eyes closed, one hand clutching a decanter, the other a glass. His hair stuck straight up as though he’d run his hands through it several times. But it was his manner of dress, or lack thereof, that held her mesmerized. The ever-proper, ever-meticulous Alexander Bishop had discarded his cravat, which explained the white cloth at George’s feet, and ripped his shirt open to reveal a mat of black, curly chest hair. A coil of heat sprang from deep inside Francie and wrapped itself around her tighter and tighter until she found it hard to breathe.

  “Gooodddd damned mess,” Alexander repeated, opening his eyes to tiny slits. He leaned forward and lifted the decanter, pouring a healthy swallow into the glass. Liquid sloshed over the sides and onto the desk and floor. “Hmmmph,” he muttered, squinting at the glass. He lifted it and threw it back in one gulp.

  Well, at least now she knew he hadn’t gone to Lady Printon’s. Francie inched backward. Perhaps she’d let him alone to his drink and his “goddamned mess.”

  “Philip doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” he mumbled.

  Philip? Francie crept forward three steps.

  “It would never work.” He shook his dark head. “Never, George. Not now.” He lifted the decanter to his lips. “Not tomorrow.” He took a drink. “Not ever.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “But she’s so damned beautiful.”

  Who?

  “That hair. The color of...” He rubbed his jaw. “Of what? Hmmm, let me think.”

  Francie touched a stray curl. Whose hair? She held her breath, taking tiny steps closer.

  Alexander’s lips curved into a half-smile. “Of course, that’s it,” he said, his head resting against the back of his chair, his eyes still closed. “Hair the color of—”

  “Oooph!” Francie’s foot hit the leg of the chair and she lost her balance, toppling head first onto the plump cushions of his favorite green chair.

  “What the—” Alexander blurted out, his eyes flashing open. He darted around the desk so fast she thought she’d imagined his earlier inebriated state. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Alexander towered over her, hands on hips, the scar on his face white with anger. Francie pushed out of the chair in the most ladylike fashion she could muster.

  “Answer me. What, may I ask, are you doing here, at this hour?” He pointed a finger at her robe. “Dressed like that?” His speech was perfect, enunciated with clarity and form. What had happened to the man who’d been slurring his words a few moments ago? She wished he’d come back. He seemed so much more approachable.

  “I...was...worried about you,” she managed, clutching her middle and training her eyes on George. Dogs were such fortunate creatures. They needn’t get involved in things like relationships or worry about saying too much or too little. A couple of feisty barks, a little wag of the tail, and a spot by their master was all they required.

  “Worried about me?” he repeated, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “How charming.”

  She tried not to notice the dark mat of hair or the tiny spiral ending in a V at his trousers. Her face heated with the thought of not thinking about it.

  “Yes, well,” Francie said. “I didn’t hear you come up and I thought perhaps you’d fallen asleep somewhere.” Like Lady Printon’s.

  His dark brows pulled together in a straight line. “You were checking up on me?”

  “No!” she said, denying the truth. “Why would I do such a thing?”

  He cocked his head to one side and studied her, his silver eyes narrowed, his mouth turned down at the corners. “Why indeed?” he mused.

  It was odd to see him in this state of undress and dishevelment, and yet, his mussed hair and open shirt seem
ed to fit him better than the starched, buttoned-up lifestyle he insisted upon.

  Francie took a step backward. “Well, now that I know you’re fine and not in danger of getting all crumpled...” She blushed, looking at his bare chest again. “I mean, now that I know you’re here...” She shook her head. “No, that’s not what I meant.” She twisted her fingers in front of her. “Of course, you’d be here.” Her gaze skirted around him, settling on George. “Where else would you be?” The next words flew out of her mouth so fast, she couldn’t stop them. “Unless you were with Lady Printon.”

  She gasped and clamped her hand over her mouth.

  “I see,” Alexander said.

  She inched her hand away from her mouth, one finger at a time. “And that would be none of my affair,” she blurted out.

  “No. It wouldn’t be.”

  Heat rushed to her cheeks. She had to get away. Now, before she opened her mouth again and made some other totally ridiculous statement.

  “Lady Printon is a very beautiful woman,” Alexander said.

  Francie pushed past the agony in her heart and murmured, “Yes, she is.” Of course, she was beautiful. But did he have to announce it in front of her as though she couldn’t discern the fact from a mere glance?

  “She’s a woman who presents herself well, as a true lady, regardless of title or distinction,” he continued.

  What he meant was she didn’t run around barefoot or try to steal his breeches for riding.

  “And she possesses a most agreeable temperament,” he went on in an even tone.

  She wouldn’t dare disagree or raise her voice to him was more like it. Unlike herself, who spoke her mind at every turn.

  “Who has no contrived expectations of what a relationship should be.”

  She would permit him other women.

  “Any man would be proud to be with her.”

  She’d heard enough about Lady Printon, the perfect woman Francie would never be. The one Alexander really wanted. “Good,” she bit out, meeting his silver gaze. “I hope you’ll both be very happy.” She had to get out of here before the tears started. And they would, once she accepted the fact that what happened under the elm tree tonight meant nothing to him. She meant nothing to him. Francie yanked the door open and ran down the hall.