by Anna Bradley
Lady Beaumont stood on her tiptoes to croon in his ear. “Oh, but I do know you, and when you come to me, I’ll see you on your knees before I’ll have you back. I’ll make you beg for me, and you’ll do it, my dear. You’ll do anything I ask.”
“I don’t beg. Not for anyone, or anything.”
“No? Shall we find out?”
Finn stood still as she unknotted his cravat and trailed her clever fingers across the bare skin of his throat. Lady Beaumont fancied herself a dangerous seductress, and it couldn’t be denied her plump red lips and sleepy dark eyes had reduced more than one gentleman to a quivering mass at her feet. She’d cut quite a swath through London’s noblemen, leaving a trail of broken hearts in her wake, and she’d no doubt expected to add him to her list of conquered swains.
This scene between them was inevitable. She wasn’t one to rest until she’d exhausted her every option, and she wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d tried to seduce him, and he’d refused her.
“You know, my lord, many gentlemen keep their mistresses when they marry, and a passionate gentleman such as yourself may find the marriage bed lacks certain intimacies you’ve grown accustomed to indulging.”
The corners of his lips lifted in a cynical smile. Dear, avaricious Lady Beaumont, so reassuring in her predictability. “Do they, indeed? But a gentleman who would do such a thing can’t be an honorable gentleman, can he?”
“Honorable?” She shook the word off, like so much dust from her boots. “Why, I’d rather say he’s a wise gentleman, to anticipate his needs with such foresight, and what is honor in comparison to wisdom, my lord?”
“The two are not exclusive, my dear. Honorable men are invariably wise, and wise men invariably honorable.” Finn let her push him toward the bench behind him, and within seconds her warm body was writhing between his sprawled legs.
“Never mind honor or wisdom, Huntington. I’ve always preferred foolish, amorous gentlemen, and while you may not be the first, you are most assuredly the second.”
She sank to her knees before him, the corners of her lips turning up in a smug smile when he slid one hand into her dark hair. Well, it stood to reason she’d smile. After all, he’d never before taken hold of her hair to pull her away from him.
But before he did pull her away, perhaps she needed a reminder of how generous he’d been to her when he ended their liaison. “The jewels suit you.” He traced the ruby and diamond necklace glittering around her slender neck, then ran a finger over the earrings dangling from her ears. “Not quite the thing for afternoon tea, but pretty all the same.”
Nothing made Lady Beaumont happier than jewels, and his parting gift to her was a handsome one. He’d chosen the deep red rubies because he thought they’d complement her dark coloring, but her pleasure in the gift had far more to do with the fact that every one of the fifteen rubies in the set was as big as the tip of his thumb, and each of them surrounded by a cluster of twelve diamonds.
“Yes. They’re lovely.” Lady Beaumont’s tongue darted out to lick her already slick lips. “Do you recall, Huntington, when you gave them to me? You said you wanted to see me draped in the red stones, and nothing else.”
He gave her a faint smile. “You were nothing if not obliging, my dear.”
“I could hardly refuse after receiving such a generous gift. But indeed, Huntington, you’re not the kind of man one disobeys, are you? Particularly when you’re intent on having your way. If I recall, you were intent on having your way quite often, and with the mildest provocation.” A throaty laugh followed this statement. “I’ve never know a more insatiable man. Not many women could satisfy you, either in frequency or tastes.”
She didn’t say Miss Somerset wouldn’t ever be able to satisfy him, but then she didn’t need to. Her eyes gleamed with triumph as she stroked her fingertips over his thighs. “You looked quite wild when you clasped the necklace around my neck. You were so savage, I was almost frightened of you.”
Or willing to pretend she was. “Oh, I doubt you’ve met the gentleman yet who could frighten you, my dear.”
“Ah, but if I were to be frightened of a gentleman, it would be you, my lord. You’re rather intense when you’re aroused.” Her voice dropped to a low, husky murmur. “Why, you stripped my gown from my back right there, and took me against my dressing table. Why, I had half a mind to run away to my bedchamber and bolt the door behind me, but then you like a bit of a chase, don’t you, Huntington?”
Her busy fingers went to the buttons of his falls. He didn’t want her anymore, but Finn was a man of strong urges, and his hard cock sprang readily enough from the crumpled fabric of his breeches. She made a low, approving sound in her throat, and lowered her head to his lap.
He’d never before denied himself the pleasure of her mouth, or her decadent, unapologetic debauchery, but dependence led to weakness, and Finn didn’t tolerate weakness.
Especially in himself.
Before her plump lips could close over his eager flesh, he tightened his fingers in her hair and pulled her back. “No, my lady. Not now, and not ever again.”
Their time together was over.
He set his breeches to rights, then rose from the bench and fetched his coat, which had fallen to the ground. “The jewels were a parting gift. But perhaps you’ve forgotten that?”
She rose to her feet and ran brisk hands over her skirts. Now her attempt to seduce him had failed, she dropped her game at once. Lady Beaumont was nothing if not practical. “Not at all.” She ran her fingers over the gems at her throat. “Such a generous gift, too, but then you always do things handsomely, don’t you?”
He did, because he was the Marquess of Huntington, and an honorable gentleman didn’t dismiss his mistress without a generous gift, no matter how troublesome she’d proved to be. “Always. You wouldn’t have had me otherwise.”
She didn’t bother to dispute this assertion. She looked him over as carefully as she had the jewels when he’d given them to her, and gave a regretful shake of her head. “Certainly not, but I don’t deny I’ve found other aspects of our arrangement nearly as rewarding as your gifts.”
He shrugged into his coat. “It was a satisfactory arrangement for both of us.”
“Satisfactory?” Her mouth turned down at his choice of words. “As I recall, Huntington, there were a number of times you appeared to find it a great deal more than satisfactory.”
Finn regarded for her a moment, considering. He hadn’t ever found it more than satisfactory, but he might have said he’d miss her, just to soothe any hurt feelings on her part. Perhaps he even would miss her, for a short while.
But he didn’t say it.
It was past time for him to turn his attention to the suitable young lady he’d chosen as his bride. He’d transform Miss Somerset into a marchioness, get a few heirs on her, and raise a family that would do honor to his name.
And Lady Beaumont would fade from his mind sooner rather than later.
She’d been watching him with a sulky expression, and now her eyes narrowed to angry slits. “Miss Somerset is beautiful, isn’t she? So innocent, with those wide blue eyes, and such beautiful fair hair. Angelic, rather like a child. I wonder what she’d think if she knew what you hide under those gentlemanly manners of yours? Those dark proclivities, Huntington, that need for control—however will you explain it to an innocent like your betrothed?”
“What makes you think I’ll explain it at all?” He’d settled for Miss Somerset for one reason—nothing about her brought out the savagery he hid under his gentlemanly veneer. She was sweet, dull, and predictable, and he’d never think to expose her to his darker desires. Once he no longer indulged them, they’d cease to trouble him.
Eventually.
Lady Beaumont drew closer, sensing an advantage. “Oh, you won’t have a choice. You’re a man of strong appetites. I’ll grant you have remarkable
control, Huntington, and manage to suppress them a good deal of the time, but you can’t do so forever, and when you do let yourself go, you’re quite…demanding.”
Finn’s smile was frigid. “Of my mistress, yes. Not my wife.”
“So you tell yourself, but just think of it, Huntington. No more blindfolds, or binding your lover with silk scarves? No more games? That chit you’re betrothed to—she’s a sweet young thing, and rather pretty, too.” Lady Beaumont’s voice dripped with scorn. “But she’s not at all to your taste. You’ll lose interest in her within a fortnight.”
He’d never been interested in Miss Somerset—not in the way Lady Beaumont meant—but then that was rather the point. “She’s naïve, docile, and predictable, my dear. In other words, precisely to my tastes. What more could a gentleman ask for in a wife?”
Lady Beaumont gave a light, tinkling laugh that nevertheless managed to be ugly. “She wasn’t even your first choice, Huntington! Such a pity you lost Lady Honora to Harley, but then it’s not quite the thing, is it, for a gentleman to wager to win the right to court a lady? Poor Huntington. Luck wasn’t with you that night, and Lady Honora would have made such an ideal marchioness. But as you said yourself, one aristocratic young lady is very much like another.”
“Much like a mistress is, I suspect.” Finn wasn’t proud of that wager, and even less pleased he’d been foolish enough to confide it to Lady Beaumont, who’d been far too amused by it for his tastes. “But the less said about that wager, the better. It would be too bad if Miss Somerset should hear of it.” He ran a fingertip down Lady Beaumont’s cheek, but his voice was cold. “I’d be quite displeased if she did.”
He turned to leave her, but she gripped his arm. “Miss Somerset is from the county, isn’t she? Surrey, I believe? A little country miss who’d no doubt be shocked at what a wealthy nobleman gets up to when no one’s watching.”
Finn’s expression didn’t change, but cold anger made his jaw tense. Not at her threat—Lady Beaumont knew there were limits to how much nonsense he’d tolerate from her—but because she knew quite a lot more than he’d realized about Miss Somerset. It seemed she’d made it her business to find out about his betrothed, and Finn didn’t like it.
He didn’t like it at all.
He took her chin between his fingers, his touch gentle. “I could almost imagine from your words, my dear, you mean to threaten me somehow. I don’t mind it for myself, but as for Miss Somerset…” His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly, but he could see by the way her eyes widened she noticed it. “I’m afraid I’ll have to insist you stay far, far away from her. Do you understand, my dear?” He swept his palm down her throat, and felt her nervous swallow. “Ah, yes. I see you do. That pleases me, my lady.”
Another swallow. “Yes, you do look pleased with yourself, Huntington.”
He gave her a polite smile, but his narrowed gaze held hers until her eyes skittered away. “I believe your visit is over. I’ll escort you to your carriage, shall I? I wouldn’t want you to get lost in Lady Fairchild’s garden. Who knows where you’d turn up?”
“Who knows, indeed?” She took the arm he offered with a resentful sniff, but Lady Beaumont had played her last card, and she was wise enough to know it.
Finn led her around the outskirts of the garden, relieved when they made it to a gate in a far corner that led into the mews. Her carriage was there, waiting, and Finn handed her in.
“Goodbye, my dear. I’ll remember our time together with fondness.”
Until I forget it entirely.
“Oh, one more word before I go, Huntington?” Lady Beaumont propped her gloved hand against the door before he could slam it closed. “You might want to keep an eye out for Lord Wrexley. I hear he’s rather taken with Miss Somerset, and you know his lordship isn’t one to easily relinquish a plaything, no matter how dull it might be.”
Finn’s mouth went as dry as dust. “Is there something you wish to tell me, my lady?”
She shot him a poisonous smile. “Now I think of it, my lord, there is. I believe I saw Lord Wrexley today, when I came into the garden. Yes, I recall it perfectly now. He was lingering there this afternoon. He said he was looking for someone. Do you think it was Miss Somerset? It’s a trifle worrying for her, perhaps. I hate to say it of him, but Lord Wrexley occasionally forgets he’s a gentleman.”
Finn’s nerveless hand fell away from the door of her carriage.
Lady Beaumont pulled it closed with a satisfied slam, her eyes gleaming as she took in his tense face. “I wish you a pleasant day, Lord Huntington.”
Chapter Three
Iris squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hands against her ears. A strange numbness stole over her, as if she’d been standing in icy water for hours, and her blood had frozen in her veins.
She stood there helplessly as their words got uglier and uglier, until at last Lady Beaumont said something that made the blood surge again in a dizzying, painful rush, and she fled, the gleeful hiss of laughter ringing in her ears.
She wasn’t even your first choice, Huntington.
Iris ran until a pain in her side forced her to a wheezing halt, her only thought to get away before she heard another word. When she came back to herself at last, she was slumped on a stone bench in a remote corner of the park, surrounded on all sides by silence, under a copse of trees whose spreading branches obliterated the sun.
Her arm stung, and she looked down to find the sleeve of her gown was torn, and a long, bloody scratch stretched from her wrist to her elbow.
She didn’t remember how it happened.
She pressed her forehead to her knees and sat there for a long time, listening to the sound of her own gasping breaths.
When she managed to raise her head and look about her, her first thought was she’d been gone for far too long, and must return to the terrace at once. But when she did, she’d be obliged to flirt and smile, and pretend everything she knew and trusted hadn’t just collapsed into a pile of rubble at her feet.
Lord Huntington would be waiting for her there, his handsome mouth full of lies.
She shrank against the bench as panic rolled over her again. Soon—she would go back, very soon, yes, and when she did she’d take his arm, and send admiring glances his way, and flirt with him, and behave as if she were besotted and believed herself London’s most fortunate lady to be honored with his attentions, because it was what everyone expected of her.
But not yet. Not while she could still hear Lady Beaumont’s high, cruel laugh in her head. Not while every hurtful word was still reverberating in her chest.
So angelic, rather like a child…
Of all the awful things Lady Beaumont had said, there was no reason these should be the words that kept echoing in Iris’s head.
No reason but one.
They were true.
She was like a child, with her naïve attempts to inspire a kiss. She even looked like a child, with her fair hair and wide blue eyes, in her sweet pink frock with the itchy lace sleeves.
No wonder Lord Huntington was bored with her.
Whereas Lady Beaumont…well, whatever else the woman might be, she was no child. She wasn’t naïve, docile, or predictable. She was beautiful, tempting, wicked—she was everything proper young ladies like Iris were cautioned not to be, with her wild dark hair, her glittering jewels and her revealing red gown.
Red.
Iris had never worn a red gown. Every item of clothing she owned was either pale pink, pale yellow, or pale blue. She’d wanted royal blue, and Pomona green, bright primrose, and Parma violet, but her grandmother insisted a proper young lady didn’t wear dramatic colors, and that a lady with Iris’s coloring could never have too many pink gowns.
Iris hadn’t argued. She’d worn the gowns her grandmother chose for her without a word of complaint, and she couldn’t deny each was more beautiful than the
last, trimmed with yards of costly Belgian lace and endless lengths of satin ribbon.
All that sweet pink silk and satin, wasted.
This, then, was what came of doing what you were told. To be ridiculed by her betrothed’s mistress, laughed at by her, to be called dull and insipid without her betrothed speaking a word in her defense. This was to be her reward for becoming everything a proper young lady should be.
Iris drew, painted, and played the pianoforte. Her quadrille was without compare, and she was an accomplished equestrienne. She was well read, well-spoken, well-dressed, and possessed of a smile that made gentlemen rush across crowded ballrooms to reach her side. She spoke French, German, and Italian with perfect fluency, her fair coloring was fashionable this season, and the filmy French gowns that were all the rage made the most of her gentle curves.
Useless, all of it.
Her engaging smile, her proper gowns, her many accomplishments—none of it made the least bit of difference, because compared to a woman like Lady Beaumont, Iris faded into insignificance.
She looked down at her hands, ashamed of this somehow, though she couldn’t explain why. She hadn’t done anything wrong. On the contrary, she’d been careful to follow every rule, and she was on the verge of making a brilliant match, just as her grandmother wanted.
On the surface, she and Lord Huntington made perfect sense. Or they had, until today, when he’d rushed her out of the garden so he could steal away to meet his mistress. Iris might be the very image of maidenly perfection, but looking back at their courtship now, she couldn’t think of one instance where Lord Huntington had shown any real interest in her.
The truth was, she might be everything he should want, but it didn’t change the fact that he didn’t. He wanted Lady Beaumont. If not her specifically, then another woman like her.
Rose Beaumont.
Rose was a fitting name for her. She looked like a lush, extravagant flower, with her mass of silky hair and that creamy skin she took care to display at every available opportunity. Iris had seen her at the theater just the other night, wearing a dramatic primrose-colored gown, with two delicate wisps of black lace for sleeves. Her shoulders and neck had been bare, revealing a daring expanse of décolletage, and she’d been wearing enormous teardrop-shaped rubies clustered among circlets of diamonds, flashing at her throat and in her ears.
