Taste of Temptation

by Cheryl Holt

  “Who? Your sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s she done?”

  “She’s on her way to London”—he was so furious that his French accent was forgotten—“chasing after those accursed Hamilton sisters.”

  “Honestly!” Miss Lambert said, as if they’d been discussing the Hamiltons all along. “What was she thinking?”

  “I don’t know, but when I catch up with her, she’ll be sorry.”

  “You won’t resort to violence, will you, Mr. Dubois? Not against your sister!”

  “Not against her, but if I run into that arrogant Captain Odell, I will beat him to a pulp.”

  “I’m sure he deserves it.”

  “Trust me: He does. This is all his fault, hiring that Hamilton woman, then Hamilton putting ideas in Clarinda’s head. Didn’t we follow them here? For no good purpose, at all!”

  He stomped off down the lane.

  “Mr. Dubois!” Miss Lambert called. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m off to the village to rent the fastest horse I can find. I must get to London right away.”

  “What about your wagon?”

  “I can’t worry about it at a time like this. Not when Clarinda could be in danger.” He gestured to the bottles and jars. “You may have whatever you’d like. Be my guest”

  For a moment she was taken aback, then she grinned. “Thank you. I will.”

  He spun away and hurried on.

  Chapter 21

  “SIT down and shut up.”

  “I don’t feel like shutting up.”

  “Well, I’m weary of listening to you, so be silent”

  Tristan stared at Michael, and he was an inch away from stuffing a stocking in his mouth to keep him quiet.

  He went to the sideboard to pour himself a drink, glad to learn that Lauretta Bainbridge stocked an excellent brandy. They were back at her brothel where it had all started, where—earlier in the summer—he’d stumbled on a desperate Helen Hamilton trying to sell herself.

  After so much time had passed, it was either the perfect conclusion or the ideal punishment. Perhaps it was merely a pathetic attempt to convince himself that he hadn’t cared about her.

  Tristan had meant to sail for Scotland immediately, to whisk Michael out of the country and have him far away from England and the trouble he’d caused, but there had been a delay in loading the cargo.

  With Michael moping in Tristan’s small cabin, and Tristan fretting over Helen and the choices he’d made, Tristan had been at his wit’s end. A trip to the bawdy house seemed the best way to ease their stress.

  Tristan was determined to prove that his sexual affair with Helen had been just that: a sexual affair. He refused to believe that there had been more to it, that he might have... loved her.

  “You can pretend,” Michael nagged, “that you’ve fixed everything by dragging me off, but you haven’t”

  “For the time being, I’ve gotten you away from Jane. That’s enough for me. We’ll work out the rest as we go long.”

  “You can take me to Scotland. You can leave me there with no money and no acquaintances. You can even lock me in a dungeon under some old castle, but the moment I can arrange it, I’ll come back and find her.”

  A muscle ticked in Tristan’s cheek, his temper flaring.

  Since they’d left Hastings Manor, Michael had been complaining about Tristan’s autocratic nature, about Jane’s predicament, about Tristan’s decisions.

  The entire debacle was a nightmare!

  “Why would you come back and find her?” Tristan asked.

  “Because I love her.”

  “You do not.”

  “I do!”

  “You’re too young to know if you’re in love.”

  “Don’t tell me what I’m feeling. I’m not a child. Stop acting as if I arm.”

  “All right, all right! You’re in love. How can it matter? You can’t marry her, so it’s pointless to wallow in this adolescent infatuation.”

  Michael whipped around and stomped over until they were toe-to-toe. With each minute the debate continued, it grew more heated, and they were closer to exchanging blows.

  Tristan would win any fight, but he didn’t want them to brawl.

  “It’s not an infatuation,” Michael seethed. “Don’t call it that. I won’t have you demeaning my connection to her.”

  “Fine! It’s not an infatuation. It’s the greatest amour in all of recorded history. So bloody what?”

  The boy was eighteen years old. What did he know about anything?

  Once he’d copulated with a few eager harlots, Jane would be but a distant memory.

  Michael flopped down on the sofa and glared at the door.

  “I hate being here,” he protested.

  “Trust me: There’s nothing going on with you that a bit of illicit fornication can’t cure. A tumble with a pretty whore always puts things in perspective.”

  “What would Helen think if she discovered you were already off visiting prostitutes?”

  “Leave Miss Hamilton out of this, would you?”

  Michael constantly raised Helen as an issue, while Tristan insisted that they’d enjoyed no heightened relationship. Though he felt like a heel for denying his affection, what purpose would be served by announcing her ruination?

  Some conduct was meant to be private, and a gentleman’s seduction of a lady definitely qualified for discretion. He’d behaved like a despicable cad. What would he be labeled if he talked about it, too?

  “I saw you that day on the stairs,” Michael scolded. “She’s in love with you, and she’ll never forgive you for keeping me away from Jane. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “Give it a rest, Michael. Please!”

  Tristan went to the window to gaze out at the night sky, but there wasn’t much to see. Lauretta’s footman had deposited them in a room that looked out over an alley. The sky wept with rain, and the dreary weather matched his mood.

  Surely Helen would forgive him—wouldn’t she? After a few weeks or months had passed, she’d calm. She’d accept that he’d done what was best for Jane and Michael. He’d apologize, and they would start in where they’d left off.

  But where, precisely, would that be?

  What with the attraction between her sister and his brother, she could never work for Tristan again. Nor could she reside in the Seymour household.

  Yet even if Tristan provided a separate lodging for her, where she could live with her sisters, he couldn’t pop in for a quick dalliance, and he most certainly could never crawl into her bed.

  If he didn’t support her financially, she’d have to take a job as a nanny or a governess, and any position would prevent them from resuming their affair. At the slightest whiff of a romance, she’d be terminated, so there was no place for him in her life, and at the notion, he was unaccountably distraught.

  Yes, they’d quarreled that last morning at Hastings Manor, but he’d told himself she’d get over it. What if she didn’t? Or what if—when he returned from Scotland—she’d vanished and he couldn’t locate her?

  What then? What then?

  The frantic query raced through his head. His pulse hammered in his chest, and he began to perspire.

  Not see her again? Was that what he wanted? Dare he risk it?

  To hell with Michael! To hell with Scotland!

  He had to speak with Helen, had to beg her forgiveness, and if she declined to give it, he’d kidnap her and abscond with her to the South Seas. He’d keep her on a hot, secluded beach, spoiling and making love to her until she relented.

  He was about to spin toward Michael, ready to tell him to do whatever he wanted, to marry or not, to have Jane as his mistress or not, to jump off a cliff—or not. Tristan had never sought the burden of caring for Michael anyway, but before he could move, the door opened.

  Lauretta waltzed in, followed by the whore Jo who’d serviced Michael the prior time they’d visited.

  Their arrival land
ed on him like an icy pail of water, dampening his spurt of anxiety, his absurd—almost maniacal—need for Helen.

  Why was he always so overwhelmed by her?

  She made him angry and drove him crazy, and it was impossible to deal with her. She’d presumed on his good nature, had treated him like a milksop, like a beleaguered husband. When he’d refused to come to heel, she’d screamed and accused and blamed, but he didn’t regret his actions.

  He’d had enough of her nonsense, and he was actually lucky that he’d departed when he had. If he’d stayed on, she might have wound up pregnant. Then he’d have had to marry her. He ought to be celebrating his escape from the marital noose.

  He would celebrate his escape—with Mrs. Bainbridge and any other female in the house who tickled his fancy.

  “Hello, Captain.” Lauretta was beaming, glad to have him back.

  “Hello, Lauretta.”

  “Lord Hastings,” she said, “I’ve asked Jo to attend you. You had seemed to enjoy yourself so much the last time that I thought we’d begin with her.” When Michael didn’t hurry to agree, she hastily added, “I assume that’s all right?”

  “Yes, it’s fine.” Michael was coolly detached, exhibiting none of the enthusiasm he’d shown when Tristan had first brought him to the brothel.

  The two women exchanged a nervous glance. Jo approached and curtsied low, her negligee flopping loose, exposing her to her navel.

  “I have a grand evening planned for you, milord.”

  “Let’s get at it.” He stood and took her hand. “The sooner we’re finished, the sooner I can go.”

  “Don’t mind him,” Tristan grumbled. “He’s been in a sour mood all day.”

  “Jo will be just the ticket to cheer him!” Lauretta gushed, smiling.

  The young couple walked out, with Michael glowering at Tristan as if he was about to be boiled in oil. The door closed behind them, leaving Tristan alone with Lauretta.

  “What about you, Captain?” she inquired. “Can I interest you in any entertainment while you wait for your ward?”

  He studied her, admiring her lush auburn hair and curvaceous figure. She was very beautiful, dressed in a flowing red gown, a flimsy robe overtop bared acres of creamy skin.

  His lust flared.

  Why not? he asked himself.

  Before meeting Helen, he’d been celibate for months, then he’d spent the summer in misery, chasing after her and luring her into bed. Their few carnal encounters had been extremely endearing, but also extremely tepid considering his typical salacious fare.

  Lauretta could provide hours of naughty amusement, and when they finished, if he hadn’t managed to purge himself of his ludicrous longing for Helen, he’d start in with another girl. Then another and another. He’d keep at it until he was too drained to remember Helen’s name.

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I would like some company.”

  Her smile widened, and she neared, her nipples brushing his shirt, her thigh his leg.

  His cock sprang to attention.

  “Would you like anyone in particular”—her voice was husky and breathless—“or will I do? I don’t usually service my customers, but for you, I’d make an exception.”

  “You’ll be perfect”

  “I was hoping you’d say so.”

  She guided him to the boudoir at the end of the hallway. It was an exotic place, designed for seduction. There were crimson drapes and rugs, plush red pillows on the floor, a comfortable divan in front of the hearth. A cozy fire burned in the grate.

  A huge bed was positioned in the center, and he escorted her to it. He lay down and pulled her down on top of him, and he tugged on the bodice of her negligee, a plump breast popping into view.

  For a brief instant, he thought about kissing her, as he would have with Helen, or perhaps snuggling and talking, which was what he’d relished most about his time with her. He’d found it so easy to talk to her, and he’d always...

  He wouldn’t think about Helen! Not when he was about to fornicate with a whore. Helen shouldn’t be crossing his mind at all.

  Lauretta Bainbridge was good for one thing and one thing only—rough, raucous sex—and that was the purpose for which he would utilize her.

  There’d be no virginal sensibilities to worry about as had been the case with Helen. There’d be no fretting over how he was hurting her. There would be no ...

  Helen! Ah!

  She was like a brain disease, a malignant tumor growing bigger and bigger. Despite how he tried, he couldn’t stop ruminating over her. She’d ruined so much for him already, and she was not going to ruin this!

  He yanked at Lauretta’s robe, ripping it off her shoulders like a wild man.

  Oddly, he was terrified that if he didn’t get to it, he might chicken out altogether. Michael’s remark—that they shouldn’t be doing this—made him feel ridiculously guilty, as if he was ... cheating on Helen.

  “Are you in a hurry, Captain?” Lauretta asked.

  “Ah... no.”

  “Then what’s the rush? We have all night.”

  She rolled them so that he was on his back, and she stretched out, her palm on his chest, rubbing in slow circles.

  “You’re awfully tense,” she said. “How about if I relax you?”

  “An excellent idea.”

  She unbuttoned his trousers and slipped her curious fingers inside, and she stroked him, using tantalizing movements that demonstrated her prowess.

  But as she began nibbling a trail down his stomach, her destination obvious, a vision of Helen swamped him. He recalled that final evening at Hastings Manor, when they’d been out in the boat on the lake. The stars had been so bright, the air so fresh, and she’d been so pretty.

  It was the damnedest thing, but his heart ached at the memory, and to his eternal disgust, his erection waned.

  How embarrassing!

  Of course, Lauretta—being a skilled courtesan—noticed immediately. She frowned, clearly disconcerted and wondering if she should comment.

  A limp rod would reflect badly on her expertise, and his reputation for virility would suffer.

  She forced a smile. “Let me try a little trick you might enjoy.”

  Her tongue flicked out and teased the tip of his cock, and he should have been jolted by sensation, but he wasn’t. He sighed and eased her away, and he sat up, his legs dangling over the edge of the mattress.

  “I don’t really want to do this,” he said.

  “Don’t worry about it. Every fellow has the same problem occasionally. It’s much more common than you realize.”

  His brows shot up. “There’s nothing wrong with my phallus.”

  “Oh! Oh! Absolutely not. I didn’t mean to imply... that is I...uh...”

  He sighed again. “Michael told me we shouldn’t be here, and he was correct. I’d best go fetch him. I doubt Jo is having any more luck with him than you are with men.”

  He stood, straightening his clothes, and she stood, too. She was wringing her hands with concern.

  “You won’t mention this to anyone, will you?” she asked. “I can’t have rumors circulating that I couldn’t... you know.”

  “You’re very beautiful and very seductive, Lauretta. My lack of interest has nothing to do with you.”

  She blew out a relieved breath. “Thank Gold.”

  “I’m just distracted. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

  “You certainly have, you poor dear. What with Lord Hastings and Lady Rose and dealing with your father’s estate, you’ve assumed the burdens of ten men.”

  “And now, I guess I’m getting married as well. If she’ll have me, that is.”

  He’d finally declared his intentions toward Helen, and he’d done it before a notorious madam. He’d shocked himself, but he’d shocked her more.

  “Married! Isn’t this rather sudden?”

  “Yes, very sudden.”

  “I hadn’t heard a word about it, and I’m usually privy to all the gossip.” />
  “I just decided myself.”

  “It’s not Maud Seymour, is it?”

  “No, not her. I might be mad as a hatter, but I’m still possessed of a few of my faculties.”

  “Whew! You’ve dodged a bullet.” Still a tad unsettled by events, she chuckled nervously. “Who is it, then? If I might be so bold as to inquire?”

  “Helen Hamilton.”

  She paused, recollecting. “That Helen Hamilton? The woman you bought from me last summer?”

  “The very one, and if you ever tell a single soul, I’ll have to kill you.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “They’d better be.”

  She studied him, then laughed. “Harry Hamilton’s daughter! I can’t believe it.”

  “It’s insane, I know.”

  “Not necessarily. Harry was a friend of mine. If she’s anything like him, you’re in for a grand ride.”

  “You could be right about that.” He went out into the hall. “Where is Michael?”

  “Third door down. On your left.”

  He proceeded to the room she’d indicated, while speculating over what was happening inside and how rude it would be to interrupt.

  He pressed his ear to the wood as Michael was saying, “I love her, but he won’t listen to me.”

  “Who does he think he is?” Jo commiserated. “Your bloody da?”

  “Yes, that’s precisely what he thinks.”

  “Why not tell him to sod off?”

  “I’m about to. I’ve had enough of his bullying.”

  Tristan knocked twice, then entered, hoping he wouldn’t go blind from witnessing some particularly indecent act. To his surprise, Michael was sitting in a chair, and Jo on the bed. Jo was still wearing her robe and negligee, and Michael was fully dressed, with not so much as his coat having been removed.

  “What now?” Michael snapped. “Can’t I even copulate without your butting in and ordering me how to accomplish it?”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Michael cocked his head, confused, as if Tristan’s words had been jumbled.

  “You want to leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. You were correct: We shouldn’t be here.”