“Good evening, Mr. Spawn, Mr. Walker,” hailed Thomas Briarcliff upon his arrival.
Devin gave a slight nod.
“Good evening, Mr. Briarcliff.” Caleb greeted the fifty-something-year-old statesman with contrived enthusiasm. “Mrs. Spawn looks forward to an entertaining evening on the dance floor.”
“Yes, indeed.” Briarcliff bowed politely at Megan then returned his full attention to Devin and Caleb. “Our host has one beloved child, spoiled from infancy. His return is cause for ceremony—”
“Pardon!” Devin cut the man off. His gaze narrowed an unspoken threat on the silver-eyed surface.
Megan sucked in a breath, sensing trouble brewing at Briarcliff’s inadvertent lapse. To offend a Spawn woman was life-risking, even if the woman in question went by the name of Sinclair.
“Let us not overlook Miss Sinclair,” Caleb replied in a low, velvet tone, nudging Devin with his shoulder, seemingly by accident. “The Sinclairs’ youngest child has taken a break from her studies to welcome her brother home.”
“Ah, yes. Daughters are secondary to sons, especially an heir. Indeed a wasted effort to educate females for the perfunctory role of wife and mother.”
“I beg to differ. An education is most advantageous, especially to women. They will not only oversee the education of future children, they often manage more than one household.”
“A woman’s education should reflect the simplicity of stitchery, serving tea, and perhaps music and whatnot.” Briarcliff turned to Devin. “With two sisters to raise, Mr. Spawn, I’m sure you agree. Females possessing such talents are well worth their diminutive weight in gold as social emissary for their future husbands. Might I add a fine woman of Mrs. Spawn’s caliber is an added luxury of which you must be quite proud?”
“You have my full accord on that point. My wife’s talents have always exceeded my expectations. Every other woman fades in comparison. And might I add anyone slighting the ladies in my life will learn firsthand the schooling I received.”
Mr. Briarcliff’s face paled. Upon his entry into the elite mores of Boston’s old money, his gunslinger past had been sizzling tittle-tattle for months. “Of course, of course,” he muttered tensely. “To disparage one so lovely should be considered a grievous offense. Mrs. Spawn is unlike other women, an intelligent female, and a true asset.”
“Then let’s not keep Mrs. Spawn waiting. Afterward, you can march on over and pay your respects to Miss Sinclair.” Devin stared at the man menacingly, towering over him by nearly a foot.
Mr. Briarcliff gulped audibly. “Yes, yes, certainly.” He eased a step closer to Megan, nervously offering her his arm. “Shall we?”
“Of course,” said Megan, offering the man her most charming smile. She wrapped her arm around his and tossed Devin and Caleb a conspiring wink over her shoulder.
* * * *
“This should be good.” Caleb’s tone held a hint of excitement. “Megan hid it well, but I could tell she wanted to slap those antiquated opinions into next week.”
“That simpering snob, did you hear what he said about Paris? The bastard. Worst mistake is to start in on a Spawn woman.”
“Because Meredith Sinclair allows her daughter to spend the entire summer at our home and gad about dressed in frippery doesn’t mean all of Boston is of the same opinion as her dear mother. Perchance he doesn’t approve of the close relationship you and Paris share. You two spend an awful lot of time together racing in that ridiculously dangerous cabriolet, like a courting couple. Many would argue a young girl should remain safely guarded at home until marriage.”
“If that’s how he feels, then he’s lucky I didn’t rip apart his pretentious neck. Paris is like me, has a wild streak a mile wide, that’s all,” Devin muttered, glaring at Caleb while they meandered in and out of the throng of couples claiming the dance floor. They took a stance along a wide expanse of French doors overlooking the terrace leading to the gardens.
Devin thought of life among the Comanche and days leading his gang of outlaws. Those days were cut and dry compared to living amongst the so-called genteel. With cutthroats and thieves, a man knew with whom he dealt. No sugarcoated words or lying eyes. In Boston, not only did crooks dress in finery, they had swank names like charlatans and tricksters. Then there were those like Samuel Peale, hiding his bawdiness behind etiquette and his wife’s skirts. Even Mr. Briarcliff was known to fancy whipping the bare bottoms of his servants for the smallest of infractions, so much so servants were not allowed to wear undergarments. The house rule applied to both male and female servants. Hypocrites they were, no better than a back-shooter.
Though he promised Megan a civilized way of life, Devin longed for the freedom of the wilderness. True to his word, he lavished her with the best his money afforded. The passion the three of them shared and oh, the little games they formed more than made up for their haughty address and new so-called friends.
He and Caleb stood on the sidelines watching Megan’s lithe body glide across the marbled floor. In a dramatic, off-the-shoulder, cream-colored gown, she was easily the most eye-catching woman in the room. An illusion net covered her shoulders and the enticing swell of her bosom exposed by her low neckline, accentuated by a form-fitted bodice and full skirt. Her natural, golden-brown ringlets fashionably pinned on top of her head revealed her sinuous profile.
His beautiful wife didn’t keep them waiting long. Fun started immediately with a press of her arms to emphasize her breasts then an averted gaze to smile at passersby.
Devin noticed the older man use the opportunity to sneak a glimpse down her cleavage.
By the middle of the dance, she had deliberately stumbled twice, crushing her breasts into his chest each time. He seized the moment to hold her close a bit longer than decorum allowed.
Toward the end of the melody, Mr. Briarcliff’s eyes darted around the crowd awkwardly, as though looking for something or someone.
“What’s he doing?” Caleb asked, tilting his head side to side in an attempt to see through the growing crowd that blocked his view.
“Old fart is a brazen fool,” Devin replied. Taller than everyone else in the room, he had a clear view of Briarcliff’s wandering hands. “Bastard is trying to grab Megan’s ass,” he whispered to Caleb, watching the man’s hand gradually descend down her skirt.
“You don’t say!”
“Check this out.” Devin disappeared in the crowd. Soon after, his hand landed forcefully on Mr. Briarcliff’s shoulder. “Excuse me.”
With a startled jump, Mr. Briarcliff turned to see Devin by his side.
“I believe you’ve enjoyed the pleasure of my wife long enough.”
Briarcliff’s jaw dropped.
Megan held her amusement at bay with apparent effort.
“The music is over.” Devin’s tone was reserved, and his expression held no hint of awareness of the interrupted indiscretion.
The older man glanced beyond Megan’s shoulder. His eyes bulged when he realized the music had indeed stopped. “Yes, yes it has,” he stammered.
Devin heard him breathe a sigh of relief after he and Megan calmly walked off.
“Why did you interrupt? It’s not like you to interfere.” She cast him a confused glance when they removed themselves from the dance floor.
“Forgive me for wanting to teach that highborn bastard a lesson. Don’t worry, I’ll not interrupt again. Have at it.”
“There you are. The music is about to begin. Please excuse us, Mr. Spawn,” said partner number two, a very young and eager cousin of Randolph’s.
Already bored at playing civil, Devin marginally nodded in consent.
Megan was all smiles for young William as he led her away.
Devin rejoined Caleb. Together, they watched each subtle move Megan used to tempt, provoke, and tantalize her partners. Always leaving the men caught off guard, aroused, and perplexed about their accidental good fortune, the ever so delightful and by all accounts ingenuous Mrs. Spawn presented.
>
As the evening progressed, gaming tables were all but forgotten. Devin shifted uncomfortably in the seat taken at a nearby table, grateful the lighting had dimmed. He needed to conceal the growing stiffness in his trousers. He rose from his chair and moved closer to Caleb, keeping the level of his voice just above the orchestra music.
“I’m hard as a rock. I’ll get Megan. We’ll meet at our usual place.” Devin pulled the sides of his coat together to conceal the aching menace throbbing between his legs, hoping to hide it from casual observers. Cut longer in back, his black tailcoat would have to be worn backward to be of any use. He gave up and walked with his hands entwined in front of his groin.
By the time he reached Megan, the violinists had played their last note. She and her partner parted ways near her group of female companions. From the corner of his eye, Devin noticed the next on her list making his way through the maze of revelers.
“Megan, come up with an excuse,” he muttered, brushing his erection against her hand just before she took a seat.
Her cheeks flushed. That take me look suddenly darkened her hazel eyes. He knew she understood the meaning behind the remark.
“We’ll be waiting.” To avoid addressing her friends, he left quickly. A group of silver-haired women chatting blocked the nearest exit up ahead. Worried one of the ladies might notice what was beneath his clasped hands, he decided to leave by way of the terrace. In his haste to escape, he swung around and slammed into Paris Sinclair, Randolph’s younger sister.
“Oh!” Paris shrieked as his hands grasped her bare shoulders, preventing her from falling.
“Paris, are you all right? Did I hurt you?” He was well aware that only exerting a fraction of his strength was ample enough to injure someone without even trying, especially a fragile female, though to describe Paris as fragile was grossly off the mark. Once she was steady on her feet, he finally released his grip.
“Entirely my fault. I should have made my presence known.” She rubbed her hands over the huge, reddened imprints of Devin’s fingers on her bare skin. “I noticed you from across the room. My plan was to remain near until you received the hint.”
“Hint?”
“Silly, we are at a ball. Highly improper for a lady to ask a gentleman to dance, lest everybody consider she is a desperate wallflower. What is even more improper is if the man refuses her request.”
“There ain’t no chance in hell you’d be mistaken for a wallflower. And you know I don’t dance,” he said gruffly, eager to flee.
She looked up at him through lush, jet-black lashes, her rouge-tinged lips quivering as though on the verge of tears.
Not one to normally yield under duress, she looked too irresistible in a childish, needy sort of way. He revisited his paw marks on her perfumed skin and felt a pang of guilt. He caved. “Since you are Randolph’s sister, why the hell not. Put me down for a dance later.” Affectionately, he bowed slightly and took a side step.
She blocked his way, and they stood nearly chest to chest. Caleb’s remark that they behaved like a courting couple fresh on his mind, their nearness was suddenly too perilously close for comfort. Not that he gave a damn what other people thought of him, but for her sake, he quickly assessed the room.
Since they were considered close family friends by many, their exchange was probably assumed unworthy of gossip by anybody who happened to observe. In the scheme of things, it probably wouldn’t even matter whom Paris spoke to. Paris was a Sinclair, and the Sinclairs were in a class unto themselves, above the laws of propriety followed by normal society folk. Moonstruck by their enormous wealth, townsfolk turned a blind eye to their comings and goings. Only Mrs. Sinclair, aware of her husband’s numerous mistresses and Randolph’s affairs, cared a lick about outward appearances. But Paris, her sweet, innocent daughter, could do no wrong in the eyes of her mother.
Satisfied no gray-haired biddies eyed them suspiciously, Devin relaxed somewhat.
Paris was a remarkably tall girl, a few inches below six feet in heeled shoes. Extremely pretty in her own right. Unlike fair-haired Randolph, she possessed long, thick, raven-black hair that shimmered to her lavishly curved hips. Despite the latest trend that had women curling, twisting, pinning, and tucking their hair into elaborate concoctions atop their heads, Paris loved her straight hair loose so it swung to and fro while she walked, like added inducement was necessary to draw attention to her well-rounded ass. She only had to stand to draw a man’s eye. Of all her charms, her eyes, a superb color of rich violet, were her most striking feature.
To Devin, though, she was still a girl. A rather well-developed girl, but a girl nonetheless. With two young half sisters close in age, Devin thought of her like a niece, someone to coddle and protect.
“Months have passed since we’ve been together.”
For a moment, he mulled over her misleading choice of words.
“Are you truly denying me the pleasure of your company yet again?”
Puzzled, he frowned. Her words were definitely misleading on so many levels.
“My birthday, silly,” she interjected, with a vivacious gesture that included a toss of her hair and a hand squeezing his right bicep. “A personal, handwritten invitation—I thought surely you would attend. I wore a special dress just for you.”
“Last month—ah, yes, I remember. We planned to come down to Connecticut to celebrate your eighteenth birthday. The girls were excited, ’cept Shelby started vomiting all over the place, couldn’t keep a thing down. Gobs of…” Devin noticed Paris turning green by the sickening details. He cleared his throat. “She’s fine now. Both girls are. Drop Megan a note. She’ll hold a get-together.”
Paris giggled. “Why, Devin Spawn, I do believe you’ve failed to notice I’ve developed into a full-grown woman.” She flounced in a circle with arms extended, palms facing up, to present him an uninhibited view.
Heart pounding in his chest, he struggled against the impulse to scour the ample figure tightly encased in a second skin of lavender from which two firm mounds of flesh rose precariously above a low-cut strapless gown that dipped even lower in the back. The ruffle-edged neckline failed miserably in confining her extremely generous bosom. Over half of her lovely, white breasts spilled temptingly over the top and sides of the bodice while plump nipples stressed the dainty satin immodestly. A necklace of tiny, pink pearls hung about her slender throat with a large teardrop pearl nestled in the deep valley between her breasts.
Paris obviously forwent a corset. Her unbound breasts were enough to melt the resolve of a blind man on course for sainthood. Though far from being remotely considered a saint, let alone a Christian, even he silently chided her parents for being far too indulgent to permit their virtuous daughter, dressed in material so thin it look painted on, to saunter unescorted in a ballroom full of young rakes. Innocent to the erotic nature of men, how was she to know that provocative gown was worse than being naked? The clingy material outlined her breasts and the V at the center of her legs perfectly. It even dipped faintly at her belly button. It gave men ideas. It gave him a powerful load of reckless ideas.
If she were his child, well, he would just…just…hell, he didn’t know what he would do. Probably lock her away in her bedroom. Then again, the bedroom was the last place to harbor a girl with such abundant attributes.
Innocently, since their arrival in Boston three years ago, he had watched her blossom into a full grown woman—her words. To him, she was a naive girl who knew a lot about nothing. She was the flat-as-a-board kid who competed with Shelby and Emma for a spot on his lap during overnight visits while he weaved bedtime tales about life in the wilds. She was a kid brave enough to jump into the deep end of their backyard pool every summer, screaming playfully, “Look at me, Uncle Dev.”
Somewhere in between sixteen and seventeen, Mother Nature paid her a visit and resided until the flat board chiseled into an opulent shape of voluptuous sinfulness. Let her parents worry over lustful scoundrels since they allowed her to prance
about in a thin gown that left little to imagine and lots to dream up.
Two half sisters locked away safely at home, his hands were already full with his own worries on how to keep the entire male population from coming into contact with sweet Shelby and precious Emma. As far as he knew, his sisters were innocent, and he wanted to keep it that way for at least ten, fifteen, maybe twenty more years.
“Uh.” He opened his mouth but could not find the appropriate words to let her down easily. Megan was outside, and he noticed Caleb leave. No time for a twirl about the dance floor, not while a fire raged below.
Paris grabbed hold of his hand and held it to her freely displayed bosom. “Spare my frail emotions. Bestow one teensy waltz. Every ball, you say you’ll dance with me and never do. Appease me this one night. Shall we call it my birthday gift?”
It was not hard to notice the alluring sparkle in her violet eyes when she looked him dead-on. With his fingers splayed against the creamy tops of her heaving breasts, he felt the fierce rhythm of her hammering heart. Absorbed by the way each breast swelled into a splendid, mouthwatering point, he caught himself licking his lips. A streak of guilt told him to look away, but the devilish blood pumping in his veins couldn’t pull his gaze away from the soft and curvaceous femininity panting beneath his palm. Bright as day, he abruptly realized she behaved like a grown woman eager to be ridden good and hard.
Dammit! Where did he get such a crazy idea? She was practically a child though her tantalizing fragrance and that melting look in her eye were those of a woman out to seduce. He needed to get out of there quick. Gently, he pried his hand loose from her grip. “The music is nearly over. After I get a drink, we’ll have that dance.”
“Promise?” She slanted her head and brushed a silken lock off her shoulder, fingers gliding slowly across the exposed contour of her right breast in an effort undoubtedly meant to capture his eye.
Fully erect, his cock jerked hard against his trouser flap. With the way she flaunted herself, it was almost as if she knew he was a breast man. Despite the powerfully intense urge to touch, pinch, squeeze the long nipples jutting out of her oversized tits, he resisted. “Have I ever lied to you?” It was a question, not a promise. It wasn’t like him to make promises he had no intention of ever keeping. Besides, there was no time to fool with a child with raging hormones. He was going to find Megan and take care of serious, adult business of a sinful nature with a clear conscience.
Cruise, Samantha - Devil's Promise: The Garden [The Devil's Playground 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 4